Chapter 19
Year unknown
Planet Algeron, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings
The wind came in nasty little gusts, grabbed the snow pellets as they fell, and hurled them into Booly’s face. He looked up into the quickly darkening sky and marveled at his own stupidity. Even generals are allowed to take leave, and, with all the Confederacy’s planets to choose from, he could have been basking in the sun, especially given the amount of back pay he had accumulated. But Algeron called, and with no attachments, he had answered.
The ground sloped upward, the dooth groaned pitifully, and Booly kicked its ribs. Rocks rattled away from the animal’s hooves as it lurched forward. Boulders crowded both sides of the trail and offered plenty of hiding places. The legionnaire decided to ignore them. He was tired—too tired to care. More than six standard months had passed since “the Battle of Arballa,” as the press liked to call it, and the peace had proved more difficult than the war. If “war” was the right word for what had transpired. Negotiations with the Thraki continued, and while some wanted the newcomers to leave, others were willing to let them stay—Tf they decommissioned half the armada, if they assumed the responsibilities attendant to membership in the Confederacy, and if they renounced all claims to me Sheen fleet. This was an issue that seemed to be of extreme importance to the Ramanthians, who favored the immediate distribution of Sheen assets as the means to compensate members for losses suffered during what the diplomatic community now liked to refer to as “an unfortunate series of incidents.” Booly grimaced. Some mighty fine soldiers had died during “incidents” like the one on BETA018. Though still denied the right to possess naval ships of their own, the Hudathans had proven themselves in battle and kept their side of the bargain. That being the case, their home world was open to commerce. Eventually, after the passage of enough time, it was hoped that full integration could and would take place.
In the meantime, a significant number of Hudathans had served in the Legion, taken a liking to it, and seemed prepared to stay. A development that could lead to problems—or add strength to an already diverse organization.
While some things had changed, some remained the same. With the crises resolved and their planets secure, the Hegemony had turned inward once again. All of the Jonathan Alan Seebos had been withdrawn from the Legion, joint military exercises had been cancelled, and de facto partition restored. Elsewhere, out along the rim, trouble was brewing. Sheen units, still operating on the orders from the Hoon, continued to search for Thraki. Renegades, many of whom had deserted during the mutiny, were increasingly active. And colonists, who insisted on pushing the frontier ever outwards, were increasingly hard to protect. None of it boded well.
As for individuals, well. President Nankool had put on more weight. Ambassador DomaSa had returned to his duties as a member of the Hudathan Triad, Veera had been given any number of decorations prior to being returned to what remained of her family, Sergi ChienChu was looking forward to his next, attempt at retirement, and, according to all reports, Maylo was fully recovered. Recovered and back at the helm of ChienChu Enterprises. The clones had grown new organs for her, and the nano-assisted surgery had gone without a hitch. Booly felt the familiar stab of pain and pushed it away. It was important to release, to let go, and focus on the future.
The doom moaned. Booly urged the animal forward and eyed the mountain ahead. A week on the mesa... That would clear his head. Snow cloaked the legionnaire’s shoulders and sealed the land in silence.
The observation point was perfect. Not on the path itself, but off to one side, on a well screened ledge. Thanks to her sensors, Wilker could “see” about five miles worth of trail. Well, not all of it, because there were blind spots, but enough. She watched the green blob lurch up out of a streambed and marveled at how strange officers were. “So, Sarge, what’s your theory?”
First Sergeant Neversmile had elected to remain where he was—high on the Trooper IF’s back. The cyborg warmed the front half of his body but left his ass out in the cold. “My theory about what?”
“Your theory about the general.. . What’s so special about the mesa?”
Neversmile knew a lot about lieutenants, had some insights into the behaviors of captains, and opinions regarding majors. But generals were pretty much a mystery, especially ones like Booty, who defied the usual stereotypes. Still, deep down, the noncom sensed that the true answer to the cyborg’s question had more to do with Booty’s origins than his rank. There were ruins on the mesa, old ruins, left by the ancients. Such places held power—the kind Wilker would never understand. He structured his answer with that in mind. “Beats the hell out me—maybe he likes the view.”
“Wonderful,” Wilker replied darkly. “So why us? How come we catch the shit details?”
“ ‘Cause Colonel Kirby liked the job we did last time,” the Naa answered. “Now shut the hell up and earn your pay. If he gets bushwhacked I’m gonna pull your brain box and use if for a spittoon.”
Wilker wanted to say, “You and what army?” but held her peace instead. Neversmile didn’t take much lip ... not from biobods or anyone else.
The sun plunged toward the horizon as if eager to light the far side of the planet. The murk fumed to darkness and the legionnaires continued their vigil. There might have been other guardian angels—but none so heavily armed.
The long winding climb had already claimed two of Algeron’s two hour and forty-two minute nights, two days, and
