Guard at the Gates of Hell (Gladius Book 1) Read online

  Corona's face took on the intent, deadly look of a ferocious predator hearing the distant hunting cry of a natural enemy. Shana noticed his left hand stole to the holstered ax at his side. "The name is correct, Commander," he replied in a grim, deadpan voice. "They once were a pest in our sector until we cleaned them out. If you are suffering from Wareegan raids, it is a problem we can permanently solve."

  Shana was taken aback by the simple deadly bloodthirstiness of the declaration. Then she realized her assessment was wrong. Legate Corona wasn't a predator. He was the anti-predator, a guard dog marking a threat to the flock. He didn't regard the Wareegans as enemies, he regarded them as the reason he existed. She shivered slightly at that mindset.

  Imin also looked slightly shaken. He was a career military man, but the natural killer in front of him was far outside his experience. He looked away from the older Gladius as he continued. "Ah, yes, ahh… at any rate, we have a shot of the only body we've been able to salvage. This will tell you if it's the same species you earlier encountered."

  He activated the projector and an image appeared in the air between the four. It showed an insectoid alien around three measures tall, covered with thick leathery skin and colored a dark green. The creature had two arms, two legs, and a bulbous head on a short neck. The limp body was dangling like it was suspended from invisible wires. To Shana, the grisly thing reminded her of a carcass dangling in a slaughterhouse. Knowing what the creature was capable of doing, she shuddered slightly. The triple-damed things were a living nightmare!

  His voice now calm, Imin continued in an unemotional tone. "We strung this one up to get a better three dimensional representation. An interesting point is that it is actually hemoglobin based and mammalian. Apparently, this specimen was artificially neutered."

  "They bleed red," Corona said in a flat voice. In more conversational tones, he added, "That is one of their warrior caste. All are apparently neutered. Where was this slide taken?"

  "At Bluefield," the Narsima injected, "where they first hit. The devastation was terrible. Also, we aren’t exactly sure what happened to the bulk of the population. We didn't find as many bodies as we expected. Normal things - manufactured items, raw materials - were taken, but why they took the people we don't know."

  "I do," Corona's voice was flat. "They have compatible metabolisms with humans. They can digest the same foods, if properly treated for such things as trace elements. We found when we were cleaning them out of the sector that they tended to take all of the organic matter they could grab to process in their protein tanks. That includes the residents of wherever they raid."

  Shana gulped, fighting a sudden surge of nausea. From the looks on the other two Cauldwell faces, she wasn't alone. "That’s ghastly!"

  "Not to them, Sim Ettranty," Corona replied, turning his fierce glare at her. "May they be damned to everlasting hells throughout time for it, but it is still their way of life. They ceased all production of their own needs millennia ago and converted totally to a raiding economy, living on their mother ships. The pattern isn't unusual in humanity, either."

  He broke off, looking at the two men. "In the past, they exhibited wanton cruelty where they hit. Examples were usually left to intimidate survivors and future victims. What happened at Bluefield?"

  Imin's voice was now the flat tones of a man under tight control. "We have several slides of the human remains we did find at the scene. I'll run through them."

  Shana didn’t watch. As one of the first reporters on the scene after the raid, she still had nightmares about that.

  Corona sat quietly. The only reaction he betrayed at the distorted horrors in the projections was a tight grip on his ax. When Imin finished, he asked baldly, "I'm aware there was another raid. What did you do?"

  Imin was embarrassed and defensive. "The Planetary Guard was no match for their ships. The only thing we could do is let them land and nuke the site with a missile."

  "WHAT?"

  The Legate came half out of his chair in outrage. "You wear that uniform to protect your people, boy," he roared, "not kill them! Don't ever forget that!"

  Narsima Ettranty leaned in to pour oil on troubled waters. "Restrain yourself, Corona. I understand your outrage, but it wasn’t this man's fault. He was under orders."

  The Legate glared at the corpulent Narsima. "Whose? Yours?"

  The Narsima nodded then held up a restraining hand to ask for silence. Legate Corona - reluctantly - settled back, clearly holding his anger in check. "Thank you," the Narsima said after the Legate appeared to be back under tight control. "Please, hear me out and consider our options. I assure you, we are talking about a last resort in this case. His men did their best, Legate. Half of our Planetary Guard was lost in our first attempt to attack Wareegan assault craft before I forbade any further action. We have nothing that can fight them on the ground and we're totally outmatched in space. We tried to protect the people of Longcreek with shelters, but the warhead malfunctioned and proved too powerful. Our other shelters should prove safe with smaller warheads. I intend to continue missile attacks if there are any other raids. Our only hope is to destroy enough of their raiding parties that they will cease their attacks and go elsewhere."

  "Only to do the same thing over again," Corona replied with dangerous intensity. He obviously had his doubts that the warhead "malfunctioned".

  The Narsima shrugged. "That is not our problem. Hopefully, wherever it is will have more and better armaments than we."

  The Legate glared back. "Enough!

  "There will be no further missile attacks, and the Wareegans will not be allowed to complete another raid. My men and I will see to the next one ourselves." He looked piercingly at the thoroughly cowed Imin. "Possibly you cannot protect your people, Commander. We will. It is our pledge."

  The Narsima settled back in his chair, pleased. He had the aid he wanted against the Wareegans. Better yet, they were completely expendable, since they had no ties to Cauldwell. With any luck, these problematical visitors would totally spend themselves in battle, neatly taking care of the future troubles they represented. Excellent. If they didn't, well, other measures could be taken.

  "I believe, then," the Narsima continued, "that we may ignore further pleasantries and begin discussing the hard details of how we can work together to rid ourselves of our disagreeable visitors."

  The Legate grunted. "My Operations Officer will be over in the morning to begin work with your staff and that of the Planetary Guard. We have a few tricks for the Guard as well."

  The Legate looked at Imin. "Judging by the way you came at our troop carrier, your formations and tactics are very poor, young man. We'll show you how to fix that and win next time."

  Imin bridled, but kept his mouth shut. To the Narsima, the reason for Imin's reaction was obvious. If they could teach him how to beat the Wareegans, it was worth the harassment. He hated the loss of his people and hated the nuclear option worse.

  "Legate."

  The word was rather hesitantly spoken in a soft, feminine voice. The Legate turned to look at Shana. "Yes?"

  She continued, "I'm a newswoman with a job to do. Cauldwell needs to know more about you. Will you allow me to visit your compound? Perhaps do a story?"

  The Narsima’s face pursed with disapproval. The last thing he needed in his relations with the legion were more complications, something the newsies were excellent in providing. "Shana, I'm afraid the Corps never admits journalists to their compounds."

  Corona waved the Narsima down absently as he intently studied Shana. After a few seconds, he appeared satisfied with what he found. "Never in the past, perhaps, Sim Ettranty, but I think it's now time for a change. Your people must know us. You have my permission to begin shortly. We will contact you when it is proper for you to visit our base. I will assign an officer to act as your guide."

  #####

  Later, as they were leaving the Narsima’s apartment, Shana felt Imin's hand steal around her waist. She smiled up at
him as he asked, "I was wondering, Sim Ettranty, if there was any possibility of asking for a date with you tonight?"

  She pursed her lips and assumed a mock-serious expression. "I’m sure there isn't, Sima. I am afraid I have a prior engagement to make dinner at the Commander's apartment tonight. Perhaps another time?"

  Imin frowned back and said in mock pompous tones, "I know the Commander, Sim, and I fear his no doubt romantic intentions where you are concerned. I'm sure he will preoccupy you to the point any further social congress between us will be fruitless. If I must yield this truly beauteous prize to him, may he know its worth."

  Shana laughed. "I’ve told that fool I don't know how many times that he has a treasure in his arms. Knucklehead never seems to listen."

  Imin laughed. "Tell him again tonight. I bet he'll pay attention."

  His expression changed. "Shana, I wish you wouldn't go out to the legion base. We don't know enough about them. Anything could happen."

  "Imin," she replied firmly, "it’s my job. I have to go there if I'm going to get any kind of story."

  "I've said it before," he continued gruffly, hugging her, "you don't need this job. You could marry me like I have been asking you to do for the last year."

  "No," she shook her head. "Not yet. I, mmph..." The kiss stilled all conversation.

  After she and Imin had gone their separate ways, her mind went back to the Legate's last comments. Assign an officer as a "guide"? The last thing she wanted was some official stooge hiding the things she most wanted to see. She and that officer were going to miss connections. That was certain.

  #####

  In his office, the Narsima was also thinking about his conversation with the Legate. The man was simple but thoroughly irritating. He and his people needed to be dealt with, but not yet. Not while the Wareegans were around. Later though, when they were weakened by battle. Then…

  #####

  Outside, the Legate and his aide were met by Legion Sergeant Major Olmeg and the command driver. Piling into the grav carryall, the weathered, scarred old Sergeant Major leaned forward to talk to the Legate in the front passenger seat while the carryall lifted and headed towards the compound. "Did they buy it, Legate?"

  Legate Corona snorted a laugh. "Bought it? Completely, Sergeant Major. That fat corrupt fool is fully convinced he's in total control of a mob of slightly stupid barbarian warriors. I imagine wheels are spinning in what passes for his mind right now, planning our removal once we've gotten rid of the Wareegans for him."

  The Sergeant Major grinned. "Told the harness story, did you, Legate?"

  Corona smiled back. "It served its purpose."

  Corona's face grew thoughtful. "There was a young woman there, too. Ettranty's daughter. From what I could sense of her, she may well be what we're looking for."

  Now it was the Sergeant Major's turn to grow thoughtful. "Lord Above knows we need one. You think she might do?"

  "That's why I invited her out to the base, so we could see," Corona replied. "If so, she's someone for you to work with."

  The Sergeant Major grew pensive. "Well, Cauldwell might have everything else, but it's nothing without the one we need. Colonel Athan's already got scouts out looking for caches, just to see if we were right. All we need now is her or someone like her. I hope and pray you're right, Legate, and she's the one. I hope and pray you're right."

  "So do I, Sergeant Major," Corona said quietly.

  CHAPTER 3

  LEGIO IX VICTRIX

  CAULDWELL

  The steady deep hum of the velotrike's motor provided a monotonous background to Shana’s thoughts on the trip out to the legion compound. It was a wonderful morning and she was perfectly happy to use her velotrike instead of a grav cab. More fun, too, she thought as she shifted in the saddle and hugged the trike's body with her legs, expertly controlling a turn with a body lean. Her father disliked the trike and claimed it wasn't suitable for a woman of her station and status, meaning he thought it reflected on his station and status. Shana didn't care. This wasn't the first difference she had with her father over lifestyle.

  The trike was fun and a way to leave newscasting behind for a while. Especially Adam, her editor. The man was going practically nuts with all the possibilities of the Gladius story, flip flopping from one direction to the next, first declaring them rescuing heroes, then an insidious danger to the stability of Cauldwell. For her part, Shana decided to ignore Adam, especially since he was giving the legion to her as an exclusive assignment. Negative or sensational reports made money and got ratings which made more money, the purpose of any news network, but that sort of thing could wait until the Wareegans were defeated. Shana sometimes wondered if the Wareegans were real to Adam. They were real enough to her and she welcomed any help Cauldwell could get.

  It had taken almost a month for the Legate's formal invitation to materialize. The reason given for the delay was the legion was still in the process of getting settled, without the time to give her the stories she wanted. That was a reasonable excuse, except Shana wondered what was being hidden during that month's time. It would take a while, but she was going to find out.

  Cruising smoothly up the country road from Beauregard to the legion base, Shana carefully studied what she could see of the camp's layout as she headed for the main gate. Overhead imagery of the base showed it laid out in a hexagonal pattern with a systematic military precision using four standard sizes of domes. Just what could be expected, she mentally sniffed.

  She noticed the huge troop ship was grounded on a new landing field established to one side of the compound and that was a bit of a surprise. She didn't know it was already out of the repair yards. Interesting.

  Things were happening fast. A refugee troopship lands, requests aid, is welcomed as a new defensive partner against the Wareegans, and a month later all of the Imperial forces appear to be distancing themselves from the rest of Cauldwell. Also interesting.

  Approaching the gate, a Gladius in duty uniform suddenly appeared and signaled her to halt. His conversation with her was polite to an almost artificial degree, like he was repeating lessons learned in a classroom. It was funny, she thought, Gladii used Unispek with an almost archaic cant and courteous precision that tended to emphasize their differences from normal people. With the formal courtesy of someone speaking a second language in diplomatic relations, he directed her to the legion's headquarters in the center of the base. She cheerily thanked him before leaving, knowing full well that was the last place she wanted to go.

  Other eyes watched her as she left, just as they'd watched her come up the road. The watchers didn't move from their hidden places surrounding the base, simply reported. There were devices watching as well. The base was secured by far more than a fence and the sentry, but none of that was intended to be seen by an observer.

  Shana deliberately kept the speed of her trike to a slow walk, to give her time to find a place that looked worth investigating. The sameness of the domes was depressing. They varied only in size, giving no hint of their purpose. When she heard music coming from one of the larger domes, she pulled into the street in front of it and parked the trike, taking off her leather jacket and helmet to stow in the trike's cargo compartment.

  The guard at the gate was quietly following her progress on a remote monitor. When she stopped, he commed in a supplemental report. The Tactical Operations Center also had her on screen. The TOC watch officer called HQ and someone was sent to gather up the wayward visitor before she could get into trouble.

  Standing in the dome's entrance, Shana listened to the music and cheering as the studied the dome's layout. The interior was a small amphitheater with tables on various levels surrounding a raised stage and large open space in the center. The place was dimly lit except for the stage where four Gladii were engaged in a highly athletic dance. The tables on the surrounding levels were full of drinking, cheering troopers, happily enjoying the show and singing. The music was provided by a small group, with Gladii playi
ng several guitars, battle flutes, and brass wind instruments. As the tune picked up speed, the crowd began to chant in time to the music, "Yawm, yawm, yawm dan schici, schici ya, schici ya!"

  The words made no sense to her. Apparently they were in the Corps' private language. She was fascinated by the dancers, until a hand touched her arm. Facing her was a young Gladius who had walked unnoticed next to her. She found herself looking up into colorless, emotionless eyes. In his turn, he looked her over like some kind of strange animal. His imposing size and expressionless face scared her slightly.

  He smiled minimally and asked her a question in the Gladius language. Another little surprise. Now what? When she shook her head in incomprehension, he repeated it in almost artificially formal Unispek. "You are local? Unattached?"

  "Yes," Shana said, trying to figure out what the young man had in mind.

  "Good," he nodded. "Then, will you come and sit with me?"

  Oh, Lord Above, how did she get herself into this? The youngster was apparently trying to pick her up! Clumsy, to be sure, but the intent was obvious. Now what was she going to do?

  "Antak."

  The word came from the open doorway behind her. Although it was spoken in a conversational tone, the voice drilled through the background furor with perfect legibility. The trooper backed away from her instantly and snapped into a position of attention, not even an eyelid quivering. She turned and saw a Gladius officer, apparently somewhat older than her, standing in the doorway.

  He strode up to the unfortunate youngster and spoke to him for a moment, his clipped phrases coming in low, even tones that wouldn't let her make out the words, only that they weren't Unispek. The man saluted the officer with a straight right arm across his breast, flat hand palm down, then trotted to his table for his cap and out the door, never breaking his pace or further acknowledging her presence.