Guard at the Gates of Hell (Gladius Book 1) Page 7

  Shana blinked at the little drama then told her more-or-less rescuer, "Thank you, I think, but I could have handled him. Where is he going?"

  The officer nodded with a quick, slight motion. "I apologize for him and for the Victrix. I am Colonel Athan, commander of First Cohort, Ninth Legion Victrix. That man is on his way to the Duty Sergeant for punishment tours."

  "Oh." She was flustered. "I'm sure that wasn't necessary. Really. He probably just made a mistake... or something."

  "He was being forward and a bit impetuous. He was also somewhat drunk, or he wouldn't have bothered you. The troops have been told we will be interacting with the local population, but not when that interaction would take place. He knew you were a local and, as I assume you guessed, was trying to pick you up. He was being entirely too forward. The punishment is necessary because he overstepped his bounds.

  "We have yet to be allowed open contact with local civilians, something unprecedented in any case. The Victrix cannot casually treat visitors with anything but the utmost courtesy, especially on a world on which we are guests. You are an important visitor from the local population. He will have time to meditate on those facts and will not forget them once he is finished."

  In spite of herself, she was curious. "What are punishment tours?"

  He replied calmly, "A punishment tour is a twenty four hour route march with full kit. He will be finished day after tomorrow at this time."

  She was aghast. "But-!"

  He ignored her outburst. "The Legate has ordered you be given full freedom of the compound and I am to answer any question you may have." He turned away from her and faced the stage. "Right now, for instance, we are in the Legionnaires Club and the men generally put on a good show to entertain themselves. I recommend we watch, if only out of courtesy."

  The cool rebuff irritated her and she got a little hotter at the thought of what this martinet had done to the unfortunate young soldier. All the guy thought he was doing was making a pass at a pretty girl. Older woman, sure, but still a pretty girl in his eyes. She tried to ignore the fact that his clumsy approach rattled her for a moment. Then she got a grip on her emotions. Anger - and a bit of fear - weren't going to get her what she wanted. Settle down, girl, she told herself. You're a professional. Act like one.

  The dance was over, and a clear pleasant voice was now beginning a bouncy, merry song from somewhere in the crowd.

  "Eyn mol, eyn mol, eyn mol,

  eyn mol tu ikh zikh banayen:

  A gantse vokh horevet men dokh,

  Af shabes darf men layen..."

  The song was lively, sung to a beat that was clapped or stamped out by the grinning men in the audience. In each verse, the singer sang point, and counterpoint was sung by the rest of the troopers in the room. Even without knowing the song's language, Shana could tell it was a happy-go-lucky sort of tune. But there was something else these men were reading into it, something a bit more ominous.

  It was funny, but she could close her eyes and almost get a picture, something like a massive armed aircraft (?) racing low over a rough landscape. There were other aircraft in formation with the first. What was that all about?

  Athan was watching her. "That's a very old drinking song, thousands of years old, like much of our music. It belonged to a fierce warrior race. They were scattered once, dispersed for over a millennium, but they never forgot. Even scattered, they were feared when they put down their books and turned their hands to war. That song was written during the period they were dispersed. Whatever its original purpose, it is part of our heritage and now it's often sung when we're going in for a jump into hostile territory."

  He looked out at the room and showed a flash of teeth that wasn't friendly or humorous. "The beat, the music, the joy... all get you in the mood to be ejected out twenty measures over beings that don't like you very much."

  Shana saw his eyes and shivered slightly. Then she realized Athan had made a joke. A grim one, but a joke. About fighting and killing. What sort of mentality did these men actually have? Once she got over her distaste, the question began to intrigue her.

  Now there were men in a circle on the stage, dancing to different music with high kicking steps and arms crossed across their chests. One fell and Shana realized they were trying to trip each other as they danced. It wasn't just a dance, but a game as well. Axes began to fly through the air, spinning in wide ovals and flying back to their owners.

  "How do they do that?" She asked Athan, indicating the axes.

  For answer, he pointed to a metal bracelet on his wrist, the twin to another worn on his other wrist. "These. They are tractor-presser units, controlled by wrist movement. The range is about twenty measures. Every trained Gladius wears them. The men use them for their axes and short swords; women use them for their daggers. It's big day in the life of a young Gladius when they are awarded their blades and bracelets. It means they are now no longer Recruits, but fully trained members of the legion."

  That sparked another question, but Shana had no time to ask. A 45 centimeasure long battleax flashed through the air, stopping centimeasures from her face. It hung in the air for a few seconds then spun back to its owner. Shana froze with shock, but Athan simply considered the whole incident with benign calm. "That was a bit of a test and a welcome to the club. No harm was intended. The men enjoy hazing a newcomer. You were right to show no reaction. They respect that."

  Getting a firm grip on her still shaky stomach, Shana decided to continue with her questions as though nothing had happened. The first rule here appeared to show no reaction to any provocation. Okay, she repeated to herself, she was a reporter with a story to get. Keep that in mind, girl.

  Drawing a deep and shaky breath, she asked, "You mentioned female Gladii, but I've never seen one. What happened to the female members of your legion?"

  Athan gave her a piercing look and the unemotional robot persona clamped back into place again. "That question isn't for me. Come, you need to talk to the Legate."

  As they waked away, Shana was irritated with herself. Athan was starting to open up in his own strange way before her unguarded question shut him down like a bolted steel box. Damn! He was some sort of underling, and probably an easier nut to crack than the Legate. Damn, again.

  She decided to take a more harmless tack. Maybe he'd relax again - as much as any of these emotionless robots did. "You said that was the Legionnaires Club. Do you have others?"

  Athan nodded without looking at her. He seemed intent on getting to the Legate as fast as possible. "The centurions - the officers - have one and the decurions - the sergeants - have one."

  He gave her a minimal smile. "That last is far the most decorous of the three."

  A boy in full uniform, somewhere in his late teens, walked past them, giving the officer the Gladius palm down, across-the-chest salute. He had a ram's horn carried by a strap across his front and was one of those she'd seen marching next to the cohort commanders when the legion disembarked.

  Shana gave the boy a searching glance as Athan returned the salute. Apparently the officer knew the question she was about to ask, because he explained without prompting. "That was Legionnaire Third Class Kamal Mako, the Second Cohort's brushara bearer. A brushara is a ram's horn, blown to lead a cohort into battle. Legionnaire Third Mako accompanies his commander into the fight. The brushara is electronically augmented to vastly increase its volume, with tones in both the supersonic and subsonic. It will shatter plass at a kilomeasure and is as much a weapon of war as a signaling device. It's the soul of the Cohort, a rallying point, and proclaims the continued existence of the unit, no matter the casualties."

  Shana couldn't help but comment. "It seems cruel to send a boy that young into battle."

  Athan's expression was tight. "Possibly, but that is the life we're born into. Mako is already a trained soldier and was the best of his recruit class. Because he's a Bearer, he's constantly under the commander's eye in action, and one of the most protected men in the Cohort.
Still, some of them pay the Gladius Price from time to time. Regrettable, but a fact of life and chance."

  Athan's reaction interested Shana. Gladii were the ultimate soldiers, bred for war. It sounded as though they didn't particularly care for the fact, but were resigned to it. That was something nobody had mentioned in the resource material she'd previously scanned.

  Shana wasn't sure what to expect when she walked into the dome housing the legion's headquarters. What she found was a large outer room that looked like any other office, except it was staffed exclusively by men in Corps uniform. Men in kilts were still a strange sight to Shana and it was a bit disorienting to see obviously tough, physically imposing soldiers engaged in prosaic administrative tasks. Everything was spartan, plain and economical, with none of the disordered little clutter of individual items that marked human personalization.

  Even the Legate's office, when Athan finally walked her inside, was plain and unadorned, geared towards a machinelike efficiency with a lack of personalization and decoration. Correction, she thought, there were several personal touches of a sort. The Legate's armor, hard to see due to its refractive camouflage, was on a stand in the corner. Nearby, a short efficiently ugly bolt gun hung on the wall, magazine in place behind the handgrip/trigger arrangement halfway up its length. From her research, Shana knew it was called a B-42. With weapon and armor at hand, the owner of this office was ready to respond to a threat in a matter of moments.

  The Legate sat behind a small well organized desk, with another Gladius sitting in one of the office's low chairs not far away. The other Gladius was older, with a scarred face, a leg stretched in front of him, and the no-nonsense expression of someone that had seen it all.

  "Please sit down, Sim Ettranty. You too, Karl," Legate Corona said. "Welcome to the Ninth Legion Victrix, Sim Ettranty. This is Decurion Tenth Vladmir Olmeg, Legion Sergeant Major. There will be... yes, here they are."

  A young Gladius entered the room, bearing hot drinks for all. Shana guessed it was coffee, but was surprised to be given her favorite type of herbal tea. She was about to comment, then realized that the chamomile tea showed how much the legion already knew about her.

  Shana thought furiously for a second or two, taking a sip of her tea to cover her thinking, and decided to say nothing. Wait and see how the Legate was going to direct the conversation. This was another test, more sophisticated than the ax, but still a test. After a few moments of silence, the Legate turned and looked at the Sergeant Major, and Shana got the distinct impression of an unspoken comment and reply being passed back and forth.

  The Legate looked at her calmly and opened the conversation. "You have questions, Sim Ettranty. We are here to hopefully arrange or give the answers."

  Putting down her mug, Shana said, "Thank you for the tea, Legate, but I'm interested in why I was invited to this base. In the last few weeks, I've done my research in Father's collection and every other reference I could find - all of which were limited - and I've never found a time when the Corps willingly hosted a reporter."

  Corona nodded. "Nor will you. You are the first, as far as I know, so we are a bit into unknown territory here. I have my reasons and I'll explain them."

  "Please do."

  "It's obvious to all of us, Sim Ettranty, that the legion is here under extraordinary circumstances."

  "Shana, please."

  Corona nodded and continued. "Shana, then. We feel your people need to know more about us. As I said, we are here under extraordinary circumstances and Cauldwell has been uninvolved with the Empire for some time, although your rulers have more contact with the Empire than I suspect you know."

  "Contact?" Shana interrupted. She was flabbergasted for a moment. He'd tossed the last sentence out casually, but it was a blockbuster. Wait. Was it really so casual? She began to suspect that the Legate never said anything casually. She also began to reevaluate the Gladius "barbarian warrior" image that was current among tridio talking heads. "That's impossible Legate," she finally said. "There's been no communication with the Empire for moe than twenty years, other than occasional liners and tramp freighters."

  Something occurred to her in a flash of inspiration. "They leave us alone and we don't care."

  Corona looked grim. "I'll explain in due time. Meanwhile, your father and the Guidance Council know exactly what's been going on in Empire politics. They are players, trust me."

  Her father? Mixed up in Imperial politics? More important was he really in contact with the Empire? For some unaccountable reason, she didn't doubt the Legate. Her newswoman's instincts said everything he was saying was true. She thought furiously for a moment, then little bits and pieces, remarks made in unguarded moments, started to connect. "You know, Legate, you have given me no proof of your statement and I'm inclined to take it with a heavy dose of salt, but I'm not discounting it. If what you say is true, that's the biggest story of the decade, not your arrival."

  Corona smiled grimly, which was the way all of these people seemed to do anything. "I'm sure it would be if you published it, but you won't, not yet. You'll keep what I just said to yourself until you get supporting evidence. That's your habit, Sim, and it's a good habit.

  "In any case, if you submit the story, it will never be let out to your viewers. Put what I said in the category for later discussion and let's move on with our conversation. I have other things to tell you. However, I ask that you take the time to contemplate why we ended up at Cauldwell out of any other possible destination."

  She nodded cautiously. All these frustratingly vague hints were irritating, but she could live with them for now. Her work was just beginning. He wasn't telling her everything, and he wouldn't, but that was perfectly all right with Shana. Nobody ever told her everything. She found it out anyhow.

  "I've issued orders you be given the freedom of the base. We won't censor your reports either. Just try not to interfere with our duties and I ask that you respect the privacy of the men if that becomes an issue. I'd originally planned to have Colonel Athan be your guide, but he commands nearly a thousand men in his Cohort and many are orphans from destroyed units that need integrating. He has his hands full.

  "Therefore," Corona said with a sly glance at the Sergeant Major, "I've decide to use someone that hasn't got any pressing responsibilities, Sergeant Major Olmeg."

  The Sergeant Major shot the Legate an irritated glance, then turned a gimlet eye to Shana. "You can ignore any irrelevant comments from the Legate, girl. I'll show you what you want and provide the explanations."

  Shana suppressed irritation at the "girl" remark then nodded at Olmeg. At least he'd be good for background information before she brought in the tridio crew. Besides, he was the first one besides the Legate that spoke Unispek with something approaching a normal speech pattern.

  Corona was still smiling, more at Olmeg than her. Sparring between the two seemed an old game. "You have complete freedom to tell our story, Shana. I also have a great deal of confidence you'll get it right. You seem to do that more often than your colleagues."

  This time Shana had to react. "You apparently know quite a bit about us for being here such a short time, Legate."

  Corona nodded. The grim look was back. "We are the most capable soldiers in human history, Sim Ettranty. People forget warfare takes many forms. It is not solely a matter of gunbolts and axes, but sometimes a matter of economics, other times a matter of public emotions, other times... well, many things. Information - and how you use it - is also a form of warfare and we have become very, very good at warfare during our existence."

  He took a chip folder from is desktop and handed it to her. "Here. This contains Copio, our language. I suggest you take the hypnocourse on those chips as soon as possible. You'll need it. You'll also find selected images of us and our lifestyle that you won't get in open sources. Consider them background.

  "Now, I have some things to accomplish this morning."

  With that, the Legate nodded, turned to a data terminal, and the i
nterview was abruptly over. Colonel Athan simply got up and walked out while the Sergeant Major heaved himself to his feet with a slight awkwardness Shana was unaccustomed to seeing in that uniform. Olmeg's somewhat stiff left leg looked like the reason. "Come on, girl," he growled as he took his cap from its nearby peg and planted it firmly on his head, cocked slightly forward. "I'm supposed to teach you about the Victrix. Well, let's go do it."

  Shana found herself swept up behind the Sergeant Major's irresistible force without a chance, or the inclination, to argue.

  Her paralysis lasted until they were outside the headquarters. She stopped dead and kept her voice level, although she felt like screaming at this ignorant uniformed robot and his disgusting mannerisms. "Wait right there, Sergeant Major! I'd like a little explanation as to what in the hell is going on here!"

  The Sergeant Major favored her with a grin. "Mad, eh? That's good. I thought you had enough in you to not take anything lying down. All right, girl, I'll tell you what's happening."

  "And while you're at it, you can stop calling me 'girl'!"

  The growl was back. "I'll call you what I call you until you earn a different name for yourself. Nothing you've done so far means a shit to me, girl. Where we start is right here where we are now. Where we go is up to you.

  "Now, do you want to know what's happening or not?"

  Shana bit her lip to keep from telling this damned old relic to stuff it where the sun didn't shine. Settle down, girl, she told herself. Getting mad won't do any good. Control yourself. Then she blushed uncontrollably when she realized what she'd called herself. Okay, so the Sergeant Major was a bastard and a son of a bitch, but he was a bastard and a son of a bitch she was going to have to work with to get what she wanted. One of these days, though...

  Once she got control of herself and took a deep breath (to the Sergeant Major's amusement), Shana said, "Okay, I'll put up with you for now, but I have limits, do you understand that?"