Chimera Company: Rho-Torkis. Issue 1.: A sci-fi adventure serial Page 5

  ——

  “Relax, Sybutu.”

  Osu didn’t fall for the man steepling his fingers behind his desk. When a lieutenant colonel told you to relax, you knew your life had just taken a wrong turn.

  “So what if we’re ruffling a few feathers?” said Malix. “We have a job to do and you’re going to make it happen. You will take five men with you and travel unobserved to a location in the capital where you will deliver a coded phrase to this contact.”

  He pushed across a photograph showing a human male dressed in smuggler chic. Even from the static image, the man oozed charm, but he revealed something else too: purple eyes. The man was a mutant.

  “His name is Captain Tavistock Fitzwilliam and he’s a free trader of flexible legitimacy. Let’s call him a smuggler for simplicity’s sake. You deliver the message and then return here without incident, after which no one will speak of this again.”

  Osu kept his demeanor blank, but the questions were raging inside him. His officers in the 27th gave the appearance of having waved through the colonel’s bizarre orders, but the squadron sergeant major would not let this drop easily. He’d be lodged in an ambush point close to the colonel’s office where he’d be waiting to pounce on Osu and interrogate him. Vyborg would suspect him of conspiracy in this affront to proper conduct. His sappers as undercover spies? Osu would rather face a crusading army of newts than the sergeant major on the warpath.

  “Make sure one of the men you pick is Hines Zy Pel.”

  Osu’s mask must have slipped because Malix added, “If there is a problem, I expect you to speak.”

  “Is Zy Pel a Special Missions operative, sir?” There. He’d said it.

  “You’ll have to ask Colonel Lantosh. Even after they bumped up my rank, I still don’t have clearance to see Zy Pel’s full personnel record. Make of that what you will.”

  “But you must have put feelers out…”

  Malix gave him a cold stare.

  You’re trying to decide whether to hang me from a whipping post or answer my question. Well, it was your decision to have me lead an undercover team, Colonel. Let’s see whether you trust your own judgement.

  The colonel seemed to decide on the latter option and softened half a degree. “There was a Hines Zy Pel who died in the Defense of Station 11. Or so the official records tell us. I have reason to think that our Hines Zy Pel is the same man.”

  “But… Station 11 was twelve years ago. According to the personnel record I’ve seen, my Zy Pel is in his mid-20s.”

  Malix put his hands up in surrender. “I know, I know. The other Hines Zy Pel was 42 when he was KIA.”

  “He’s 54? Can’t be the same man. Impossible.”

  “For you and I, Sybutu, that is true. But away from the core worlds, I’ve encountered mysteries that defy explanation. Don’t discount the possibility. Keep an eye on him. For the moment, he is a vital asset, especially given the nature of what I have tasked you with. However, if you ever suspect him of an agenda that undermines his duty to the Legion, then I am ordering you to kill him before he realizes you suspect him.”

  To kill Zy Pel in cold blood? That wouldn’t come easily.

  “Acknowledge,” the colonel demanded.

  “Yes, sir. If Zy Pel appears to be turning, I will kill him.”

  “Do you remember Colonel Lantosh’s words when she was arrested on Irisur?”

  Talk about a sucker punch to the gut! Osu remembered everything about the incident when the Militia arrested the CO for standing up to the corruption endemic on that world.

  It was Legion philosophy to respond to defeat or reversal with immediate counterattack. Lantosh and Malix’s response had been the most un-Legion like possible.

  “Yes, sir. She told us not to act. To let the skraggs take her without resistance. Without the Legion retaliating.”

  “No,” snapped Malix. “She did not. She ordered us to let go without retaliating until the right moment. This is the right moment, Sybutu. This message you will carry. You’re doing this for the colonel.”

  Malix’s words set loose a turmoil of emotions in Osu’s breast that he didn’t fully understand. He wept tears of rage, something he hadn’t known was possible.

  “This is the moment when the Legion holds the line. Can I rely upon you, Sergeant?”

  Osu saluted. “To the ends of the galaxy, sir. No matter what.”

  ——

  Like all legionaries, Osu kept a grab bag ready in case he had to move out at a moment’s notice. So it was less than thirty minutes later that he and his five chosen men reported to the small armory room just off Vehicle Park 8.

  Malix had said they needed to pass for civilians. That was obvious, but the consequences were a shock. Gone were their armor, helms, and PA-71s. In their place, blasters, a rifle, swords, and a collection of mismatched fetid armor pads and electro chainmail covered in heavy, mud-stained, tattered cloaks.

  No self-respecting civilians would look like this, but they could always pass for Militia.

  Osu was last to leave, delayed by the need to confirm with the colonel that, yes, they were ready to set off and, no, they would not communicate with anyone, going completely off-grid until the mission was completed.

  As he left to pick up his transport, looking and smelling like a barbarian, he found the passageway blocked by De Ketele.

  “What’s up, Sergeant?”

  “What do you mean?”

  De Ketele flinched. “Don’t treat me like a fool.”

  “Sorry.” The silence hung heavily as Osu thought of the right words to explain without compromising OpSec. He found none. “Look after the guys,” was all he could say.

  De Ketele’s eyes widened. “You are coming back?”

  Osu placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Of course.”

  He froze. It hadn’t occurred to Osu that he might not return in the few days Malix had suggested. The message he’d been given was intended to unlock a powerful unknown. In the face of such uncertainty, even a few days away from Nydella suddenly seemed like an age. The separation was bad enough but went with the job. It was leaving without ever saying what they meant to each other that cut him.

  “Do me a favor?” he asked De Ketele.

  “Anything.”

  “Tell Sergeant Sanderson that I’ll come back to her. Tell her… tell her I love her.”

  If De Ketele’s eyes were wide before, now they practically exploded. “Azhanti, Sybutu! What in Five Hells is going on?”

  “I don’t know. Honestly. But something bad’s headed our way. Stay sharp till I get back.”

  “Damn right I will.” They clasped arms and locked gazes. “I’ll tell her. I swear.”

  Osu nodded. He knew he could rely on De Ketele.

  But it still stung to leave in secret without even saying goodbye to her.

  Oh, she’d understand. He dared hoped she’d even wait for him. But after leaving the LT behind forever on Irisur, it felt like he was now doing the same to Nydella.

  De Ketele slapped him on the back and walked off without another word.

  ——

  Urdizine gunned the motor of his bike, whooping as he sped away through the half-finished meltwater conduit. The gravitic repulsors of the modified civilian bike were pushed out of phase by the unevenness of the surface, making a painful beating noise that pounded Osu’s skull like merciless electro hammers.

  Crazy Zhoogene. The Perseid natives with the waxy green skin were as much plants as men, which made their deep love of engine vibrations pulsing through their bodies all the more ironic.

  Osu called after him before he disappeared into the darkness of the tunnel. “There will be plenty of time to tear up the ice once we clear the base. Button it up for now, Urdizine, and get your green ass back here.”

  The wayward Legionary turned his bike in a lazy circle that had him riding halfway up the curved wall of the tunnel. His headlights picked out a rat, which froze before scurrying through a gap in the wa
ll.

  “Sergeant’s right, Greenie.” Stryker sounded even more rebellious than usual. “We’ve a vital mission to perform. And that’s bugging me, Sergeant. You’ve spoken drent and smoke since we left camp. We’re to pass on a message? That’s why God gave us encrypted radio comms. And, for that matter, short orbital hops to get from one point on a planet to another without having to ride a damned bike through the ice storms. What are we really doing?”

  “We’re holding the line,” said Zy Pel. “That’s right, eh, Sarge?”

  Osu ground his jaw. He’d let Stryker blow off steam because he knew that’s what Tavarius Stryker needed before he’d cool and see sense. He didn’t need Zy Pel’s help.

  “Damn right,” said Osu. “This is Legion business. I don’t understand the half of it, but it is Legion business.”

  “And that’s all any of us need to know,” added Zy Pel in a tone that said the topic was closed for good.

  “What, are we Militia now?” Yergin had decided it was his turn to challenge. Osu cursed silently. He was losing them already. Probably his own doubts were surfacing. The Legion wasn’t used to following a leader who didn’t believe in what they were doing.

  “Quiet!” hissed Zy Pel. He tilted his head, listening. “Someone’s coming. Go dark!”

  They switched off their headlights, plunging the tunnel into absolute darkness. Osu still couldn’t hear anything, but a few moments later, Urdizine whispered in his ear. “I hear them too. Boots. Marching.”

  “Legionaries?” asked Osu of the inky blackness – unlike the Zhoogene, he couldn’t see in the dark without his helm.

  “I don’t think so. Maybe. It’s strange. Can’t figure it out, but they aren’t Littoranes.”

  Osu thought hard. Who could they be? He couldn’t think of a single answer that he liked. He grabbed the ball he had kept ready in his cloak pocket. “Peeper out,” he whispered as he threw the device into the tunnel.

  The peeper bobbed along the tunnel, keeping a few inches above its floor and relaying mapping data to Osu’s goggles. He drew the long hood of his cloak down over his eyes to limit any light emission. The peeper too would be keeping itself to the shadows, and passing back its findings via microscopic relays it left along the way, communicated with a tight beam microwave link.

  When the 27th arrived on Rho-Torkis and assessed the area around the dig site, Major Cartwright had drawn deeply from his well of curses to describe the inadequacy of the drainage. A huge amount of energy was being used to power the dig site itself. What did the garrison think would happen when that energy reached the snow and ice of the surrounding area, and on a planet that had recently flicked on the fast thaw?

  When operational, the meltwater channels they were passing through would be the permanent solution.

  A few hundred meters up ahead, the central tunnel they were transiting through began splitting into offshoots like a delta system, a design intended to reduce flooding from the outflow. Nearly a full klick away, up one of these side channels, the peeper found the source of the noise.

  Osu sighed with relief. He didn’t know what he’d expected to see, perhaps a rebel army or an invasion by an alien power such as the Muryani. Even in the false light image sent by the peeper, it was clear that they had encountered legionaries marching back to the camp.

  Zhoogene hearing was incredible, but at this distance, even Urdizine’s ears weren’t entirely reliable.

  They were just legionaries. Nothing more.

  Nonetheless, they were legionaries who would shoot first and ask questions never if they encountered unauthorized civilian intruders in ragged cloaks and mounted on hover bikes.

  “Follow my lead,” said Osu. “It’s a Legion patrol. Dismount and set bikes to stealth mode.”

  They pushed their bikes into a different side channel, hurrying to get there before the legionaries emerged into the main tunnel.

  As Osu monitored the advancing unit, he began to side with Urdizine’s first impression. Something was wrong with this image. The soldiers wore Legion armor and most of them carried PA-71s. Even their spacing was textbook. But their movements were awkward in a way that Osu couldn’t put a finger on. It was as if they were trying to act drunk but making a hash of it, which made no sense at all.

  At first, he tried to tell himself that the strained jerking movements were those of exhausted legionaries at the end of a forced march. But he knew that was a lie.

  Who the hell were they?

  What were they?

  “Camp Faxian can take care of itself,” Zy Pel whispered as the strange legionaries passed by into the main channel, apparently oblivious to the close encounter.

  Behind his goggles, Osu’s eyes narrowed. Did Zy Pel suspect them too? How could he possibly know?

  Annoyingly, Hines Zy Pel was right again. The colonel had told them not to stop for anything. Not to report back for any reason, no matter how strange or dangerous, until the message was delivered.

  The area was guarded by seven battalions of legionaries. To bolster numbers, they’d even drafted in an ad hoc unit of Militia, scraped from dregs across the planet.

  Militia... His spirits fell. Could these be Militia masquerading as legionaries?

  Too many unknowns. But Osu had all the certainty he needed: a clear mission objective.

  “They’ve passed us,” he said quietly to the others. “Time to push on.”

  “One thing first,” said Stryker. “We are legit, right? I mean, after what Clarke did, hiding from other legionaries is not a good look.”

  It would be easy to answer yes and tell his squad to shut up and get the hell out of there. And it would be easy to explain that he didn’t know for sure whether any of the two groups in the tunnels were acting legitimately in the eyes of the Legion’s sector commandant. But Osu figured his men deserved a proper answer.

  “When Colonel Lantosh was arrested on Irisur,” he said, “she told us to wait before we got our retaliation in. Well, now we’re done waiting.”

  “Holy Azhanti, Sergeant,” exclaimed Stryker. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? So, let’s hightail it outta here already. We’ve got a message needs delivering.”

  ——

  “The contact is a small-time smuggler called Captain Tavistock Fitzwilliam,” said Osu, scanning the trees below their hideout through his binocs. “Last known location is Bresca-Brevae. The capital.”

  “He?” queried Urdizine. “Do we have a confirmed and stable gender?”

  “Yes. Male.”

  “Human male?”

  “Kind of.” Osu lowered his binocs. “He’s a mutant.”

  He turned round to assess the reaction of his team. A lot of people had no time for mutants, but he didn’t sense protests brewing. Stryker and Zavage had their faces turned away and glued to their own binocs, watching the approaches from other directions. They’d used camo-sheets to cover the hollow scooped out of the dying glacier, which made it too dark within for his team to see each other’s faces well, but the others seemed to register a quiet buzz of excitement, not disgust for mutants.

  “And we stay off-grid,” added Yergin. “No matter what. Copy that. We stop for nothing. Copy. So why are we camped in a snow hole instead of riding these bikes the hell outta here?”

  Because every time Osu thought of the legionaries in the tunnels, foreboding lashed at him. But he wasn’t ready to share his paranoid fears.

  “I want to know if we’re being followed,” he answered, which was true. “It’ll be dark in two hours. We set off then.”

  “Storm’s coming on the horizon,” added Zavage. “That’ll cover us.”

  Yergin narrowed his eyes and stared at Osu. He knew something wasn’t right. But the two men also knew they could trust each other. Yergin shrugged and looked away, untroubled.

  Osu returned to his observation of the camp four klicks away.

  When the 27th had arrived on Rho-Torkis a few weeks ago, they had come in during a blizzard that had throw
n fist-sized ice balls around like it was a public stoning. On other planets, the shuttle would have abandoned the approach or shifted to a landing site with better weather.

  But on Rho-Torkis, a ferocious ice storm meant a good day.

  Today was the first day of truly clear skies since their arrival and the world had taken on an astonishing beauty. The upper atmosphere was still heavy with soot from ancient nuclear fire, which meant that even two hours from sundown, the skies were a deep coppery red unlike anything he’d seen on other worlds. Melting ice and snow made a playful tinkling sound as glistening drops flowed and merged into rivulets and miniature streams. The blanket of moist snow created such a fiery glare that your eyes would burn and visibility would be zero without the smart-filtering of their glacier goggles.

  He’d seen the pictures from space. The planet looked like a red ball of heated metal.

  And Camp Faxian in the evening light was spectacular. It was laid out as a pentagon, with walls coated with ceramalloy that looked like burnished red gold. Cylindrical towers stood proud at the vertices of the outer defenses, each topped by a domed cupola from which projected a heavy 288 cannon. It was a dream of form and function.

  Even the landing pad where the 27th had arrived in such foul conditions now looked peaceful, with neatly lined up shuttles shining like hot jewels.

  And inside this impregnable fortress was Sergeant Sanderson.

  They say you don’t fully appreciate what you have until it’s taken away.

  Well, he’d never exactly had Nydella. But he had a shot of making something with her, and he knew now how precious that was.

  When they returned in about ten days. Their reunion would be... monumental.

  He laughed at the prospect, but even so he visualized packing away thoughts of homecoming. He had a job to do first. Thinking about her would not help him to come back safely.

  The moment he withdrew his binocs, his eyes registered movement at Camp Faxian. All five turret cupolas were traversing.

  The guns were moving inward.

  “Legionaries sighted,” Zavage announced. “Between northeast edge of glacier and the tree line. Infantry moving north armed with PA-71s and one SLM-B missile launcher. I see a dozen, but in these trees, there could be a lot more.”