Warlord Page 4

  Belnale’s tail twitched in predatory anticipation. The spiked tip glistened blackly. It was obvious he looked forward to the coming events. “Colonel Echcha Ler’eti has seniority over you, as do the two other colonels on Phrenoria. Three warriors currently onplanet outrank you.”

  Knowing he had staked his life on his brazen claim, Zhoh raised his voice, making his words stronger. “I am the better officer. I have had more combat experience than any of those warriors. You need someone who can hold this world and improve our command of it. I am that warrior.”

  He wanted to tell them that choosing Echcha over him would be a mistake, but he could not insinuate that they did not know what they were doing. Bruising their honor during this encounter was possible and permissible, but he could not directly challenge their ruling.

  “Colonel Echcha believes that he can do the same. We talked to him only a short time ago.”

  “Colonel Echcha means well, but he lacks the experience to make this operation a success. He is mistaken about his own abilities.”

  “General Belnale,” a deep voice roared, “I demand satisfaction. I want to face this kalque who has disrespected me.”

  Zhoh recognized Echcha’s voice and was not surprised the War Board had allowed the colonel to listen in. Belnale, at least, had known what Zhoh would request, and the old warrior had set events into play so that everything could be dealt with at once.

  Belnale raised a hand.

  Immediately, Echcha’s holo formed in the room as well. He stood only a few meters away. He was taller than Zhoh, more massive, filled out with corded muscle. His color was primarily purple, but there were pools of blue and green as well. His position guaranteed him the privilege and power that his color did not.

  With a sudden shift, Echcha lashed at Zhoh with his tail and his patimong, driving the points of both into Zhoh’s face. Zhoh didn’t move. The weapon and the tail dug into his replicated image but didn’t touch him.

  Cursing, Echcha pulled away and sheathed his weapon. His tail coiled restlessly behind him. His anticipation of causing Zhoh to flinch backfired on him.

  Echcha glared at Zhoh, and his pheromones, even through the holo, carried the scent of angry disgust. “I claim Hutamah. This diseased selydy would be better cleaning dung heaps than he would be at pretending to be a warrior.”

  Zhoh almost reached for the patimong but stopped himself at the last moment. Echcha was back at the base, in another area. He wasn’t in that room.

  Zhoh kept his voice soft and level. “I would ask that Colonel Echcha’s request be allowed.”

  He was surprised at Echcha’s instant demand for personal combat, but it would settle things once and for all for the command on Makaum. Provided Zhoh lived.

  Echcha’s chelcirae flexed, springing out and collapsing like they were practicing ripping into Zhoh’s face. “Have you grown embarrassed of living?”

  Zhoh fixed his gaze on Echcha. “I have grown tired of lingering in the shadows through no fault of my own. I will have my future and my respect back.”

  “You will find yourself resting upon a dung heap shortly.”

  Zhoh ignored the threat. “I would also ask that Lieutenant Colonels Nalit Ch’achsam and Warar Tindard serve as Colonel Echcha’s seconds in the Hutamah. That way all possible resistance to me taking command of the army on Makaum will be dealt with at once. One after the other if need be.”

  Belnale hesitated, and Zhoh wondered why, but Ashvor spoke into the silence. “I agree with the kalque. Let Colonel Echcha have his Hutamah, and let Warar and Nalit serve as his seconds if they so choose.” He shifted on his seat and took a fresh grip on his trident.

  Two of the other warriors agreed with Ashvor, then a third. A majority had already formed. The remaining two warriors added their votes as well.

  Belnale sat back in his seat and one of his lesser hands played over the hilt of his patimong. “It will be as you wish, Colonel Echcha, but it will be done quickly. You have one taimor to arrange combat. We will view the Hutamah.”

  Echcha clacked his primaries as he looked at the Seraugh. “I look forward to ridding you of this embarrassment to the Empire, then to serving you longer as your general in delivering this bountiful world to you.” Then he faded from the holo.

  Ashvor looked at Zhoh. “No brave words, kalque?”

  Zhoh swept his gaze over the assembly. “No. With your leave, I will rejoin you shortly to accept my command.” He stepped backward. “Then we will all feast well on our enemies.”

  28003 Akej (Phrenorian Prime)

  When Zhoh blinked, he was back at the base on Makaum. Emotions shifted restlessly inside him and anticipation rose to the top, followed swiftly by fear, and then anticipation again in an endless cycle. He calmed himself, but he could think of little besides the coming confrontation. He had not expected things to happen so quickly, nor to gravitate to all or nothing stakes.

  Then again, that was the only way his true future could be forged.

  Mato watched Zhoh. “Triarr. I would serve as your second during the Hutamah.”

  Zhoh glanced around the communications center. None of the warriors there would stand as his second. Not even his bonded warriors in the Brown Spyrl would risk themselves as Mato was going to. “Of course. I would have no other.”

  A second in the Hutamah was there to administer a killing blow to prevent suffering, but the second could also be killed if the opposing victor so chose to take further satisfaction in his victory.

  Mato’s confidence was infectious. “We will triumph. This moment is lannig.”

  “And lannig changes everything,” Zhoh finished. “I could end up facing all three of them.”

  “Then it would be best to kill Echcha and the next two swiftly, triarr. We have a war to win here.”

  FOUR

  Med Center

  Fort York

  1016 Hours Zulu Time

  The thunder of battle and screams of the wounded and dying clamoring inside his skull, Sage tried to sit up only to have a strong hand press against his chest and shove him back down. He reached for the hand, searching for a hold that would allow him to break the fingers or the arm attached to the hand. Then his vision clicked in and he saw Captain Karl Gilbride standing over him in blue surgical scrubs.

  The medical officer smiled, but his hand was firm. “Easy, Master Sergeant. You’re among friends.”

  Gilbride tended to be obstinate and autonomous. In his early forties, he was only a little older than Sage. A surgical cap covered most of the captain’s brown hair. His gray eyes were attentive and bloodshot. Perspiration threaded through the stubble darkening his cheeks. A surgical mask lay crumpled around his neck and hung from the elastic bands. Blood stained his scrubs.

  Ignoring his heart hammering inside his chest and the suddenly awakened pains and aches that laced his body, Sage relaxed a little. He winced as he shifted because familiar pain threaded through his body and let him know a swarm of nanobots were within him repairing damaged tissue.

  Gilbride took his PAD from the thigh pocket of his scrub pants and tapped the unit to life. He scrolled through the information contained on the screen with quick, practiced flicks. “You’re going to need some more pain meds while the repair work is being done. And you’re going to need bed rest.”

  “I’m fine.” Sage tried to focus, but his thoughts still swam elusively. He remembered the action at the bazaar in a crazy quilt of images and sound bites that didn’t quite jibe as a continuous thread. They’d shut the Zukimther mercs down, confiscated the munitions they’d been selling, and even took the 100mm cannons into custody. He received that information on-site when he’d carried Escobedo to the medics.

  They’d achieved the mission’s objective, but the cost had been high. A third of the team had died, and another third was somewhere here in the fort’s medical wing. He didn’t know how many of them were critical. Instinctively, he tried to pull up the information but realized when he got no response that he wasn
’t wearing the AKTIVsuit.

  “You say you’re fine,” Gilbride said agreeably, “but that’s not what your body is telling me.” He made a couple final taps on his PAD. “I listen to your body, Master Sergeant. And to the nanobots. They never lie to me.”

  “I’ve got things to do.”

  “Those things are getting done by people perfectly capable of getting them done without you. For the moment, Colonel Halladay’s orders are for you to rest, so you’re going to rest. You’ve been running on empty since the festival, not sleeping, not eating, and not taking care of yourself. You’ve burned through a lot of energy. Now you’re going to pay it back.”

  Stubbornly, Sage grabbed the bed rails and tried to pull himself up. The assassination at the festival had caught them unawares. He’d been trying to climb from behind the eight ball since then and get ahead of the curve. Makaum was in the throes of social unrest fed by fear of the Phrenorian War igniting around them. There were too many things to do. He still didn’t know everything that had happened at the festival. The assassin that had killed Wosesa Staumar and General Rangha was still in the wind. The Makaum people were split down the middle as to whether to trust the Terrans or the Phrenorians.

  Sage heaved himself up to a sitting position only to find out his legs were strapped down. His head spun and his vision blurred as he reached for the strap releases. “I can’t stay here. I’ve got to get moving.”

  Gilbride shook his head and smiled agreeably. “You’re not doing anything for the next few hours, Master Sergeant. Those are the colonel’s orders, and he outranks us both. Good night.” He gave the PAD a final tap.

  The collar around Sage’s neck pulsed and he grabbed for it too late. Meds swam through his veins. A warm lassitude swelled inside his head and strength left his arms. Feeling betrayed, he fell back onto the bed and blackness enveloped him.

  The nightmares came then, slamming into him furiously. One moment he was on Makaum fighting the drug traffickers in the jungle and the Makaum terrorists in the red light district, then he was on Nogdria 7 trying to get the local populace to safety from invading Phrenorian kill squads after the (ta)Klar had undermined Terran efforts to shore up the defenses. He’d lost his legs there and spent three months regrowing them. After that, Command assigned him to Terra to run boot camps and turn out cannon fodder for six years.

  Finally he’d created enough problems trying to return to the war that Command had seen fit to put him on Makaum. The planet had been an out of the way place, and they’d intended for Sage to disappear into the Green Hell.

  Now the war was coming for Makaum. The Phrenorians had their secret base out in the jungle. A stockpile of weapons and war vehicles could be inside—were inside, Sage felt certain, though he still couldn’t prove that. Learning what was in that base remained a priority.

  He felt a twinge of guilt about his desire to get back into the war, thinking that maybe somehow his aspiration to do so had acted like a lightning rod and pulled the war to the planet, had brought death to so many people. The rational part of him knew that wasn’t true, but that part of him wasn’t in control at the moment. Now, he was prey for his fears.

  The meds kicked him down deeper and took him back. Before he’d gone to space to fight Phrenorians, he’d grown up in Sombra de la Montaña. The Shadow of the Mountain. It had been one of those small Colombian villages on the outskirts of Bogotá where the United States military had battled the narco-barons. Space travel had been new then, but the drug trade had still been deadly because the future never gave way easily to the past. In so many ways, Makaum resembled that village and became a lodestone for Sage’s memories.

  In the nightmare, eight-year-old Frank Nolan Sage ran for his life as helicopters peppered the mountainside with machine gun fire and rockets. Explosive rounds opened up craters around him and ripped trees out by their roots. He screamed for his mother. His father was somewhere out in the jungle fighting with his military unit against the narco-troops.

  Rounding a tree, Sage spotted a savage figure lunging for him, then he felt a strong, chitinous claw suddenly close around his neck before he could get away. His forward momentum came to an immediate halt as his feet left the ground. He gripped the pincers and tried to pry them loose, but it was no use. The Phrenorian held him and he dangled helplessly.

  The alien’s six black facial eyes stared down at him with bestial intelligence. For all the armament it wore, this Phrenorian was stripped of intellect down to pure lethal intent, a predator on par with the jaguars and anacondas that hunted in the South American jungles. The alien opened its mouth and the chelicerae wiggled like tentacles as they flared wide as well.

  The Phrenorian ducked his head forward and the chelicerae bit into Sage’s face. One of them punctured his left eye. Poison flooded his features and set them on fire.

  Sage yelled, and the meds took him more deeply into the black so the nightmares could no longer reach him.

  FIVE

  Red Light District

  Makaum Sprawl

  1041 Hours Zulu Time

  Jahup walked along the street with the Roley at the ready, cradled across his body as he’d been taught, which wasn’t much different than how he’d trained to hunt in the jungle. Since there was no tree canopy, the sky was bigger in the sprawl, but the density of potential predators was much greater.

  The Terran AKTIVsuit drew a lot of attention from nearby people and marked him as an outsider and unwanted. Martial law had been declared in the sprawl and sanctioned by the Quass after the killings during the Festival of the Beginning, and most offplanet businesses weren’t happy about the restricted hours.

  Neither were most of the Makaum people who liked socializing at night. Emerging from the jungle to set up a civilization after the generation starship had crashed onplanet had been a necessity, but now it was a freedom they wanted to keep. They didn’t understand that massing at night, when nocturnal predators could kill from the shadows, was dangerous.

  His grandmother had been one of the first to sign the martial law measure into the few guidelines the community had. Many of the people argued against the Quass—and his grandmother—showing such a heavy hand. So their dislike for him came from both sides: the military and the fact that he was the Quass’s grandson.

  The hateful looks didn’t bother Jahup much. Makaum was no longer safe and he knew he was doing what he could to protect his friends and neighbors. His presence there in the AKTIVsuit was a grim reminder of that. Many of his people hated the Terran military, and a lot of the offworlders didn’t want any kind of police or military control around their businesses.

  He was glad the faceshield disguised him. Most of the Makaum people along the street and in the offworlder bars knew him. It was one thing to be reviled, but it was another for the attacks to become personal.

  Before he’d agreed to fight with the Terran military, he’d belonged to one of the hunter bands. He’d helped feed his people by going out into the jungle and bringing back meat. He hadn’t exactly been a hero to them then, but they had respected what he was doing. Out there, people knew he was risking his life to bring them what they needed. Serving the Terran military didn’t translate quite so neatly.

  All of the Makaum had valued him as a hunter. Now some of those same people who had gifted him with food and craft items after hunts looked away from him as he passed. They thought of him with the same dislike they reserved for the Terran soldiers. To them, he was an oppressor, a living symbol of all the freedom they had lost.

  The judgment wasn’t fair. Those people blamed the Terran military for their problems when they’d actually given away their innocence and autonomy so willingly in the early days after planetfall. People had helped the offworlders rip away chunks of the jungle to plop down shops, manufacturing plants, and bars that lined either side of the cracked plascrete streets that had been quickly laid to support those endeavors. The Terran military had arrived later.

  Cracks pitted the plascrete in sev
eral places, and in many of them tree roots had pushed through the buckled surface. Someone had sprayed defoliant on the new growth recently and the orange foam glistened wetly in the morning sunlight.

  “You’re being awfully quiet.”

  Startled, Jahup almost turned his gaze from the street, then remembered the 360-degree view afforded by the faceshield. The suit’s tech had taken some getting used to, and some habits were proving hard to break. Like looking to the side to see his patrol partner.

  Jahup hoped Tanest would leave him with his thoughts, but he knew that was too much to ask for. She reminded him of his little sister, Telilu, because of her prying and tendency to natter on about anything that caught her eye. “I’m just thinking.”

  Tanest was curious about things. That trait had made her a good hunter, but not always a good friend. And sometimes even as a hunter she had a tendency to poke a cudide’s nest, arousing the stinging, finger-long insects to battle just to see what would happen.

  She was a couple years older than Jahup, but he was half a head taller and broader. She was slender and agile, and easy to look at. Her dark hair, only showing a light green cast to it, fell past her shoulders and framed an oval face with a slightly turned-up nose.

  After Jahup had joined the Terran military, Tanest had quickly followed, but it was her own curiosity about the offworlders and their tech that had pulled her in. She wore a kifrik, with all eight legs on display, on her Velcro shoulder flashing.

  Three years ago, she’d been bitten by a young kifrik and the concentrated poison had almost killed her. Once she’d recovered, the wound had healed slowly and left behind a slightly raised web of scarring on her right forearm. Instead of being upset about the ravaged flesh, she’d had the scar tattooed, showing it in bolder relief rather than trying to hide it.

  Jahup had liked that. Scars were acceptable things for hunters.