For Those Who Fell Page 6

  Now, as Gaphy and Kuga-Ka finished inspecting the 1st platoon, Haaby was worried but wasn’t sure why. She and her comrades had a real platoon leader now, and if appearances meant anything, a good one. But the feeling wouldn’t go away, and the T-2 felt herself tense up as Gaphy stopped in front of Santana, and the Hudathan moved in to examine her readouts.

  As with all Trooper IIs, inspection plates were located on various parts of Haaby’s mechanical anatomy. In order to thumb the higher ones open most humans had to stand on a footstool, but thanks to his additional height, Kuga-Ka had no need for such assistance.

  The Hudathan called each reading out as he checked them. “Power, 98 percent. Coolant, 94 percent. Ammo, zero. Life support, 100 percent. Communications, uh-oh, what have we here? I’m sorry, Lieutenant Santana, but at 56 percent readiness, Corporal Haaby’s com status falls well below minimums. Not a very good showing is it, sir?”

  Haaby checked her own internal readouts, experienced a feeling of horror when she realized that the accusation was true, and wondered how such a thing could have occurred. In fact, one of the maintenance techs had checked her systems earlier that morning, and . . . Then it came to her. The tech had been bribed or forced to disable part of her com system. Not the short-range stuff, since she’d been using that, but something else. But why?

  Santana heard the patronizing, almost condescending tone in the Hudathan’s voice, and knew that whatever had occurred was payback for the incident the day before. Kuga-Ka knew the new lieutenant would want to make a good impression on Gaphy and was determined to embarrass him. Just as he had been embarrassed in front of his toadies. The cavalry officer looked up into the Hudathan’s mocking eyes. “Yes, Sergeant. I would have to agree. Come see me about 1400 hours. I’d like to discuss what we can do to make sure that nothing like this ever happens again.”

  It was an order—which meant Kuga-Ka had no choice but to obey. Not only that, but the way the response was worded, and the slight emphasis on “ever,” had a slightly ominous quality. “Sir, yes sir.”

  “If you two have completed your little chat, it would be nice if we could move this process along,” Gaphy said irritably. “I realize that you have been dirtside for less than a full rotation, Lieutenant Santana, and am willing to grant you some momentary slack, but not after today. Corporal Haaby is your responsibility, and I expect more of my officers, especially those with your experience.”

  It was a proper dressing down, made all the more humiliating by the fact that it had been delivered in front of the 2nd platoon, not to mention the rest of the company. Santana felt the blood rush to his face as he stared at a point one foot above Gaphy’s head. “Sir! Yes sir!”

  Kuga-Ka smiled thinly—and the inspection continued.

  The sun inched higher, the temperature continued to climb, and the Legion baked in the sun.

  A cold lunch had been brought into General Ibo’s office fifteen minutes earlier. It sat mostly untouched as the increasingly heated discussion continued. The meeting with Kobbi had gone well, but taken a turn for the worse, when Naval Captain Horace Yantz arrived, and immediately launched into a list of all the things that the navy couldn’t possibly provide, starting with armed escorts, and extending to the request for a Leviathan class transport.

  “So,” Yantz said, flicking an imaginary piece of lint off an immaculate sleeve, “the Mothri Sun and the Spirit of Natu, are the best that I can do. Both of them are smaller than the type of transport you requested, but there’s a war on, and we must work with what we have. Especially where these off-the-cuff special ops missions are concerned. There’s only so much we can do you know.”

  Ibo watched the naval officer stroke his well-manicured mustache with the back of a finger and wondered if he had ever been shot at. It seemed unlikely.

  Kobbi, his face bright red with barely contained anger, leaned forward in his seat. His voice was so low, so hoarse, that it resembled a growl. “What can you tell me about those frigging ships? My battalion includes cyborgs as well as bio bods. . . Do both ships have the necessary life-support systems?”

  Yantz frowned, used a silver stylus to tap a series of comp keys, and peered at the data that morphed onto the screen. “It looks like the Natu has racks for 150 brain boxes—but the Sun doesn’t have any. It shouldn’t matter, though . . . we’ll put all of your borgs on the Nat.”

  “The hell you will,” Kobbi said thickly. “Think about it . . . If the ship carrying the brain boxes is destroyed—the war forms on the other vessel will be frigging useless! The boxes have to be split in two so that each cyborg is on the same vessel with his or her body. Need I remind you that this mission has a Nova class priority?”

  “Sorry, old boy,” Yantz replied smugly. “Mission priority doesn’t matter . . . It just isn’t on. You can take what we have or walk to Savas. The choice is up to you.”

  Kobbi started to come up out of his chair but hesitated when Ibo placed a hand on his arm. “As you were, Colonel.”

  “Captain, I can’t say that I think much of your attitude, something I intend to make clear to Admiral Sato. In the meantime make whatever arrangements are necessary to board Colonel Kobbi’s battalion in three days’ time.

  “Oh, and one more thing, you will either find some sort of believable escort for the transports, or I will remove this comet from my collar and personally kick your chair-bound ass. Do I make myself clear?”

  Yantz was an expert at bureaucratic warfare, but didn’t relish the prospect of an actual fight with the tough-looking general, even though he outweighed her by a good thirty pounds. The naval officer rose from the table and reached for his hat. “That won’t be necessary, General. I’ll see what I can do.”

  The legionnaires waited for Yantz to leave, looked at each other, and grinned. “I would pay good money to see you kick his ass,” Kobbi said.

  “It would be hard to miss,” Ibo growled, “but I won’t get the chance. He’ll come up with some sort of escort. But what about the brain boxes? You could leave them in their war forms.”

  “Yeah,” Kobbi agreed, “I could. But it’s a three-week trip. Each borg would be buried in a hold—and locked up with his or her own personal devils. Half of them are convicted murderers—so who knows what would happen if they were isolated for a prolonged period of time? I’ll put most of them in the racks and take my chances. We can put a few in spider forms and put them aboard the second ship. It sucks—but it’s the best I can do.”

  “Yes,” Ibo agreed soberly. “Well, odds are that both ships will make it through, and everything will be fine.”

  Kobbi nodded, and even managed a smile; but there was an empty place in his gut, and the battalion commander wished he could find something that would fill it.

  The boxy eight-by-eight paused just long enough for Sergeant “Dice” Dietrich and Private Suresee Fareye to hop off the tailgate before it lunged forward and growled into a higher gear. Dietrich waved his thanks to the truck’s rearview mirror, took a scrap of paper out of his pocket, and was about to examine it when Fareye spoke. “It’s over there, Sarge, next to the water tank.”

  Dietrich put the piece of paper away. “All right then—let’s see if the loot is home.”

  Though unarmed, the legionnaires advanced the way they would have on LaNor. Together, yet separated by enough space that a single burst of machine-gun fire wouldn’t kill both of them, eyes scanning the area for danger. Not because they expected trouble on Adobe, but because they expected trouble everywhere, and were ready for it.

  Platoon leaders rated a four-person shelter or squat all to themselves, and like everything else in the area, Santana’s was covered with dust. The legionnaires were about ten feet away from the front of the dome-shaped tent when a Hudathan emerged. He scowled at them. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m Sergeant Dietrich—and this is Private Fareye. We’re with the 2nd platoon, Alpha Company, 1st REC. And you are?”

  “I’m the one who’s about to call your company sergeant and tell her that you’re out roaming around where you shouldn’t be,” the gunnery sergeant replied. “Or should I call your platoon leader instead?”

  Dietrich had been in the Legion a long time, had dealt with every kind of NCO there was, and the expression on his leathery face didn’t change one iota. “Call anyone you like, gunny. We have passes. Is the lieutenant in?”

  Kuga-Ka made no reply other than to grunt, barge between them, and stomp away.

  The legionnaires looked at each other and shook their heads in mutual amazement as they approached the tent. “Lieutenant Santana?” Dietrich called. “Are you in there?” But there was no response. A quick peek confirmed that the squat was empty.

  “So what was that about?” Fareye wondered out loud.

  Dietrich shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me. Well, let’s grab some shade and take a load off. The loot will probably turn up soon.”

  Santana returned twenty minutes later, spotted the twosome emerging from a patch of shade, and returned their salutes. “Well, I’ll be damned . . . Aren’t you two supposed to be back on LaNor?” Dietrich had a tendency to be rather ruthless at times, and Fareye wasn’t above a bit of larceny, but he felt a real sense of affection for both of them. In a tight situation, when the chips were down, no officer could ask for better soldiers.

  “No sir,” Dietrich replied, stepping forward to shake the platoon leader’s hand. “You left, the captain took some staff job on Algeron, and the new CO arrived. There wasn’t anything wrong with her except for the fact that she’s infantry, and we’re cavalry. If you take my meaning, sir.”

  Santana grinned, read between the lines, and figured the new officer was green as grass, something of a tight-ass, or a combination of both. “Well, we’re lucky to have you whatever the reason. Which outfit were you assigned to?”

  “Alpha Company, sir. Second platoon,” Dietrich answered. “It’s a good group but we wondered if the lieutenant’s platoon is up to full strength?”

  “It is,” Santana answered, “but I’ll check with the company sergeant. Maybe we have some slots in one of the other platoons.”

  Dietrich nodded. Once he and Fareye were on the company’s muster sheet they’d find a way to join Santana’s platoon. “Thank you, sir. Your company sergeant. . . Is he Hudathan by any chance?”

  “Why yes,” Santana replied, “he is. How did you know?”

  “A Hudathan gunnery sergeant was leaving your tent just as we arrived,” Fareye responded. “It said, ‘Kuga-Ka’ on his name tag.”

  “Thanks,” Santana said, his eyes narrowing. “I’m scheduled to meet with him later this afternoon. I’ll check on those slots when I do.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Dietrich replied. “Well, we’d better get going, but we’ll see you around.”

  “That’s affirmative,” Santana said. “Camerone!”

  “Camerone!” the legionnaires answered, as they snapped to attention and saluted.

  Santana responded in kind, watched them depart, and wondered what Kuga-Ka had been doing inside his tent. Searching it probably—looking for some sort of leverage.

  “So,” Fareye said once he and his companion were out of earshot. “Did you see the loot’s face when you told him about the Hudathan?”

  “Yeah,” Dietrich replied, “I sure as hell did.”

  “So, what do you think?”

  “I think the loot has a big ugly three-hundred-pound problem.”

  “So, what should we do?”

  “We’ll do what we always do,” the NCO answered calmly, “we’ll cover the loot’s six.”

  The grapevine was usually faster than official channels of communication, though often less accurate, which was why battalion maintenance officer Captain Beverly “Bev” Calvo already knew the battalion was going to be deployed before she took the call from Colonel Kobbi. The destination was wrong, though, not that it mattered, since she’d never been to Worber’s World or Savas.

  All Calvo cared about was the fact that there were only three standard days in which to prepare, the brass was going to split the brain boxes and war forms between two different ships, and the battalion would have to operate independently for an extended period of time.

  That was why both she and the battalion supply officer, Captain Rono-Ra, had mustered their forces at the center of the 1st REC’s cavernous maintenance center. It was chow time, which meant that members of the other battalions weren’t likely to be around, and that was just as well. The prefab structure dated back to the inception of the now defunct Trooper III program and was forever imbued with the odors of hot metal, lubricants, and ozone.

  The Maintenance Officer (MO) was only five feet five inches tall—which was why she stood on the second step of a three-step maintenance ladder. Rono-Ra needed no such assistance.

  Calvo wore her usual combination of a blue kepi, stained overalls, and scuffed combat boots. She had a pretty face, but rarely gave the matter much thought or sought to emphasize the fact. What Calvo was known for was the specially equipped artificial right arm which she had been fitted with after losing the flesh-and-blood version to Thraki shrapnel. The MO had modified the artificial limb so that it could accept a full array of tools, including a cutting torch, impact hammer, and power wrench. Her fingers whirred as she motioned the audience forward. “Close it up, people . . . We don’t have much time.

  “Those of you assigned to snatch teams have been given lists of must-have high-priority parts. You were chosen for this assignment because of your contacts, your discretion, and your complete lack of scruples. Please don’t disappoint us.”

  Those assigned to the snatch teams knew the cap was telling them to steal the items on the list from the other battalions. They also knew that their peers would expect such a move and defend against it. But they laughed nonetheless and were in high spirits as they streamed out of the building through a quad-sized door.

  “All right,” Calvo continued, “it’s up to the rest of you to prep the war forms, load the transit containers with supplies, and put the boxes aboard the ships. Check your hand comps for lists of what goes where and the load sequence.

  “Finally, hear this, and hear it good . . . Lieutenant Rono-Ra and I want every quad, RAV (Robotic All-terrain Vehicle), and tac box filled with food, ammo, and spare parts before they are loaded into the transit containers. Then, before the cargo modules are sealed, we want more stuff crammed into all the nooks and crannies. If you do it, and do it right, Lieutenant Rono-Ra calculates that we can increase the amount of supplies we take with us by a full 10 percent.

  “That’s right,” the Hudathan put in. “And when the troops board, feed them first, fill their pockets with loose rounds, and tuck a roll of toilet paper under each arm. Does everyone read me?”

  There was a loud, “Sir! Yes sir!” followed by more laughter.

  “Good,” Calvo concluded soberly, “because where we’re going there aren’t any pre-positioned supplies, shopping malls, or packages from home. Consult your NCOs if you have questions. We’ll be working sixteen hours on and eight hours off until the ships lift. That will be all.”

  The crowd scattered as Calvo stepped down, thought about the task ahead, and looked at Rono-Ra. “So what do you think? Can we pull everything together?”

  The supply officer produced the Hudathan equivalent of a smile. “Oh, we’ll pull it together all right . . . But General Ibo would be well advised to keep one hand on her skivvies. There won’t be much left around here when we’re done.”

  The Hudathan arrived on time, filled the entrance to the squat with his considerable bulk, and announced his presence. “Gunnery Sergeant Kuga-Ka, reporting as ordered, sir!”

  Santana was seated behind his folding field desk. Its surface was bare except for a zapper identical to the one that the NCO had used on Haaby and quite possibly others as well. The officer eyed the silhouette, wondered if the meeting was a mistake, and said, “Enter.”

  Kuga-Ka took three Hudathan-sized paces forward, came to attention, and held it. Normally Santana would have said, “At ease,” and invited the NCO to sit down, but the present circumstances were anything but normal. His status as an officer gave him an important advantage—and he had every intention of using it.

  The Hudathan spotted the zapper, knew it was there for a reason, and felt something cold trickle into his veins. How much did the officer know? And more importantly, did he have any proof?

  “No, it isn’t yours,” Santana said, taking the remote off the table. “But it’s similar. I wanted to see how hard they were to come by and learned that half a dozen of them were stolen from the military police a few months back. Did you or one of your toadies steal them?”

  “Sir! No sir!”

  “That’s good, very good,” Santana replied, “not that I’m inclined to believe it. Here’s what I’ve learned so far . . . Ever since you arrived on Adobe you have used your authority to abuse, degrade, and torture the very beings you are sworn to protect. And, because you are so violent, people have been understandably reluctant to file charges against you.

  “Now, based on what I’m telling you, a normal person would stop such activities so that he or she wouldn’t get caught. But you believe you’re smarter than your officers are—and take pleasure in carrying out your little games right under their noses. That, plus the fact that you are addicted to the pleasure you derive from abusing others, means that you’ll continue even as some aspect of your tiny little brain tells you that it’s dangerous to do so. And it is dangerous, because I’m going to catch you at it, and bring you up on charges.

  “Or, and I suspect you’re thinking about this one right now, you can attempt to kill me. I say ‘attempt,’ because a whole lot of people have tried to kill me in the past, and I’m still around. How ’bout it, gunny? Would you like to take a shot at me?”