Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell by William C. Dietz Page A

toadies knew they were in for a rough afternoon but followed anyway.
    Santana made a mental note to pull the gunny’s P-1, took another look at the map, and continued on his way.
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    Once, back when he was eighteen years old, before he had been executed for murder, snatched from the brink of death, and dropped into cybernetic boot camp, Lance Corporal Bud Wilker had been six feet tall, and weighed 173 pounds. Now, only four years later, his new body stood twenty-five feet tall, weighed fifty tons, and could carry two squads of legionnaires into battle. Assuming it was fully operational that is—which it currently wasn’t. The “up” actuator on his right foreleg had sheared in two, transforming him into what his fellow quads jokingly referred to as “a tripod.” Efforts were under way to correct the problem however—with none other than Colonel Kobbi in the role of lead tech.
    The battalion commander would have been bald if he hadn’t chosen to shave his head, possessed a face like a bulldog, and sported a full day’s stubble. He was five-eight, had a barrel-like chest, and slightly bowed legs. He wore filthy overalls, and the only thing that served to distinguish him from the rest of the maintenance crew was the eagle pinned to one of his epaulettes and the fact that he swore a lot more than they did. Most tech types would have been embarrassed, not to mention resentful, had their battalion CO found it necessary to involve him- or herself in a routine maintenance procedure. But Kobbi’s people knew that the old man was there because he genuinely loved to get hishands dirty, liked to hang out with “real soldiers,” and was passionately interested in every aspect of his command.
    That wasn’t to say that the cavalry officer was unaware of the credibility that such activities earned him, the example it set for junior officers, or manner in which it shaped the battalion’s personality. Because although he was a jacker, Kobbi was extremely intelligent and happy to exploit any advantage that came his way.
    That was why a small crowd watched with interest as Kobbi directed a sergeant to, “put the frigging support stand under the frigging support plate, so we can work on the frigging actuator.”
    Wilker could have stood on three legs while the repair was made, and would have had the battalion been out in the field, but the regs called on them to, “Implement Class Three safety procedures, while in areas not categorized as hostile imminent zones as defined in section twelve, part two, of standing LEGCOM orders.”
    Metal squealed as a group of soldiers pushed the stand in under Wilker’s armored belly. “Colonel Kobbi? First Lieutenant Antonio Santana, reporting as ordered, sir.”
    Kobbi turned toward the voice and saw that an officer with dark hair and even features was standing at rigid attention. “You can skip the parade ground crap, son. We’re working on a quad—not kissing some general’s ass.”
    Santana allowed himself to relax. Kobbi was different, that was for sure, and there was something about the colonel that he liked. “Sir, yes sir.”
    â€œSo,” Kobbi said, looking the newcomer up and down. “I understand that a bug named Hakk Batth ordered you to fire on some unarmed Thrakies during the Sheen conflict, you told him to shove it up his ass, and the brass brought you up on charges. Then, after face-fucking each other for a while, they broke you to second louie while the bug took a walk. How did you feel about that?”
    The unexpected question, combined with the unusual setting, hit Santana like a bucket of cold water—especially with so many other people around. That was when Santana realized that the nearest legionnaire was fifteen feet away, that Kobbi’s voice was pitched low enough that only he could hear it, and that the assault was by way of a test. The battalion commander