What ensued was a bloody block-by-block battle fought against Chozick’s troops and some of the townspeople who took pot shots at the invaders from doors and windows. It was a foolish thing to do, but understandable since most of them didn’t know about the reliquary, or its importance. So Smith spared them to the extent that he could without putting his legionnaires at additional risk.

  It was nasty work. But inch by inch, and foot by foot, Smith’s legionnaires pushed Chozick’s people back. And by the time the sun rose, Smith’s company had control of the town. What they didn’t have was the reliquary, and repeated attempts to make contact with Josy had been unsuccessful. Had her platoon been wiped out? Or were they inside the mine where radio signals couldn’t reach?

  There was no way to know, as Smith led two squads of bio bods into the no man’s land of sheds, trucks, and piles of rusting equipment that lay between Sunrise and the copper mine. He was rounding the front end of an old crawler when the renegade made contact. “This is Chozick. Let’s talk.”

  The transmission came in via the command freq. And why not? Chozick was using Legion standard com gear. “Okay,” Smith said. “What would you like to talk about?”

  “First, tell your people to stay where they are, and stop firing. I’ll do the same.”

  Smith scanned the area in front him through a pair of binoculars. Everything looked normal enough. “Roger that. Hold one.”

  Then, cognizant of the fact that Chozick could hear, Smith spoke to his people. “This is Nine . . . I’m in contact with the renegades. Maintain your present positions and hold your fire. Over.”

  Having kept his word Smith switched to command frequency again. “All right . . . The cease fire is on. Place your weapons on the ground and come out with your hands over your heads. Over.”

  Chozick laughed. “Very funny, Nine . . . I thought you were after me. After us. But then my scouts saw the Hudathans. They want the skeleton and you’re here to help them get it. And that makes sense in a twisted kind of way. The Confederacy is about to go under and the ridgeheads can save it. Well, that’s fine with me . . . Give us a ship plus five million credits, and we’ll leave the box of bones behind. Or keep coming and we’ll destroy them. The choice is up to you.”

  Suddenly a third voice came over the command channel. And it belonged to Josy! “Not so fast asshole. It turns out that we have the reliquary . . . And the hole you were going to hide in. So it’s like Captain Smith said. Put your weapons down and your hands in the air.”

  There was a moment of silence. Smith figured Chozick was on the horn checking to see if Josy’s claim was true. Then, having received no reply, he was forced to confront the truth. With Josy behind him barring any chance of retreat, he had nowhere left to go.

  The silence was broken by a fourth voice. “This is Orson. I’m here with Lieutenant Josy. I suggest that you allow me to speak with Captain Chozick.”

  Smith was sick of all the killing and, if there was a way to take the surviving renegades alive, then he was for it. More than that, he had a duty to do so . . . “Thou shalt not kill.” It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a commandment. Yet he had violated it over and over. Maybe, just maybe, he could meet God with a little less blood on his hands. “Okay,” Smith said. “Go ahead. You heard it Chozick . . . Orson is coming out to talk to you.”

  There was no reply. But, as with the drones, Smith could see what the robot saw on his HUD. And that gave him an Orson-eye-view of a rectangle of light with legionnaires crouched to either side of it. Then he was walking out into bright daylight with the sheds, trucks, and rusty gear piled beyond. He could see the renegades now, most of whom were kneeling, weapons at the ready. A man stood and turned. Smith could see the look of surprise on his face and hear his voice. “Shithead! Is that you? Well I’ll be damned.”

  “Yes,” a new voice said. A voice that Smith recognized as belonging to Colonel Price! “You should have aimed lower.”

  Chozick frowned. “Who are you? What’s going on?”

  Smith was wondering the same thing. Had Orson been programmed to channel Price? That’s the way it appeared. But why? Then he remembered the order Price had given him. The one he refused to obey.

  “Say goodbye,” Price said.

  Chozick frowned. “Goodbye? Wait a minute . . . Let’s talk, let’s . . .”

  When Orson exploded, a horizontal blast wave erased Chozick and the rest of the renegades. Smith’s visor went dark to protect his eyes and the helmet acted to dampen the sound. But he could feel the heat as the wind blew past him and was sucked back in. The second clap of thunder was weaker than the first, and left Smith feeling angry. The Legion had been planning to kill Chozick all along. And, being unable to count on him to do it, they sent Orson. Had the robot been programmed to knife the renegade if it got close enough? Or to shoot him? Probably. But he was carrying explosives just in case.

  “Well,” Josy said, as she strolled out into the sunshine. “That takes care of that. Mission accomplished. Let’s round up our people, call for some transportation, and go home.”

  About the Author

  New York Times bestselling author William C. Dietz has published more than forty novels some of which have been translated into German, French, Russian, Korean and Japanese. Dietz also wrote the script for the Legion of the Damned game based on his book of the same name and co-wrote SONY’s Resistance: Burning Skies game for the PS Vita. He grew up in the Seattle area, spent time with the Navy and Marine Corps as a medic, graduated from the University of Washington, lived in Africa for half a year, and has traveled to six continents. He has been employed as a surgical technician, college instructor, news writer, television producer and Director of Public Relations and Marketing for an international telephone company.

  Dietz is a member of the Writer’s Guild and the International Association of Media Tie-In Writers. He and his wife live near Gig Harbor in Washington State where they enjoy traveling, kayaking, and reading books. www.williamcdietz.com

  The Good Shepherd

  From William C. Dietz comes an entry in his popular Legion of the Damned series, featuring societal misfits and outcasts transformed into more-than-human warriors. These unlikely heroes turn out to be the last best hope for human salvation. This story takes place after volume nine of the original Legion series, A Fighting Chance, giving us a moving story wherein a soldier makes sacrifices to aid and save a girl in need, acting as . . .

  I am the good shepherd. The good

  shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.

  John 10:11

  THE PLANET SAA-NA, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  Tara was a Class III “drop city,” meaning a prefab community which could be dropped into a wide variety of planetary environments and brought online in ninety standard days. And that was the kind of efficiency a company like Madsen Mining required to keep costs low and profits high.

  But just because drop cities made financial sense didn’t mean they were pretty to look at. And Tara wasn’t. “Form should follow function.” That was one of the many guiding principles Madsen Mining administrators were expected to follow. And that explained why the plex looked like a stack of randomly placed blocks sitting on top of a “scalped” hill. An antenna farm had replaced the feather trees and the globular water tank sat next to a cluster of three landing pads.

  And that’s where Corporal Mike Murphy stood as a yellow dwarf called Pylo II did its best to melt the fused dirt under the Trooper 5’s blocky feet. But, because Murphy was equipped to handle just about anything, the cyborg barely noticed.

  The other legionnaires weren’t so fortunate. They were bio bods, meaning flesh and blood human beings, who were sweating into their shimmery light-bending camos. Did Murphy feel sorry for them? Hell, no. Because they could eat food, drink beer, and have sex. Not virtual sex . . . Real sex. Something that Murphy and his electro-mechanical comrades were no longer capable of. Murphy’s thoughts were interrupted when Sergeant Omar spoke. “Atten-hut!”

  The six legionnaires came to attention as a door opened and a teenaged girl appeared. Did she rate such a courtesy? No, but Governor Reginald Smith did, even though her father was nowhere to be seen. Why was that? Murphy wondered. Supposedly, according to what Sergeant Omar had been told, the governor was taking his daughter to school in Ubba. A Class II drop city located 500 standard miles to the east.

  Caitlin Smith looked to be about sixteen or seventeen. She had lime-green hair, and was sporting a pair of sunglasses so large that they hid half her face. A skimpy blouse and some short-shorts completed the ensemble. Caitlin paused as two contract workers arrived, each lugging two shiny suitcases. “Be careful,” Caitlin chided. “Each one of those bags costs more than you make in a week.”

  Murphy reckoned that was probably true, since contract workers weren’t paid very well. A reality that was everything to do with the partial work-stoppage currently underway. Two-thousand miners had walked off their jobs three months earlier, shutting down three of Saa-Na’s five mines. And that mattered because gadolinite, a mineral composed of cerium and yttrium, was critical to certain high-tech products the Confederacy’s military-industrial complex produced. One of which was Murphy’s war form.

  That’s why a detachment of legionnaires had been sent to Saa-Na. Their job was to protect the company’s personnel and property from the rebellious workers who wanted more pay and better healthcare. Murphy “felt” the sudden downdraft via his sensors as the fly form’s engines fired up and the VTOL’s rotors began to turn.

  Like the Trooper 5 the boxy aircraft was controlled by a human brain which served as the aircraft’s sole pilot. The ramp was down and Caitlin’s platform shoes made a clomping noise as she walked up into the yawning cargo bay. The workers, suitcases in hand, followed along behind. “At ease,” Omar said over the tactical frequency. “You know the drill . . . Follow me, sit aft, and keep your yaps shut.”

  The last part of the order was unusual, and Murphy figured that Omar was concerned that his legionnaires might swear in front of the girl. Or, worse yet, tell each other about sexual exploits both real and imagined.

  Murphy followed the bio bods up the ramp to the point where the Titan’s crew chief stood waiting. He nodded. “Good morning, Corporal . . . Did you safe your weapons? Good. Please step over to the port side.”

  Murphy had been through the process countless times before. The fly form had seats for the bio bods but not for seven-and-a-half-foot tall Trooper 5s. Murphy stopped in front of slot number seven, performed a perfect about face, and backed into the waiting recess. Connections were made as two arm-like clamps emerged from the bulkhead to hug Murphy’s chest. Others captured his legs.

  The contract workers were gone by then. The ramp produced a whining noise as it came up and was locked into place. Still no governor, Murphy thought. Not that I give a shit.

  The outer world faded to black as Murphy shut his video pickups down. He “heard” the fly form’s pilot make the usual announcements, and “felt” the VTOL lift off before he drifted off to sleep. There were dreams. Dreams of Ellie’s smiling face. The two of them were standing on a beach, and about to share a kiss, when the bomb exploded. The fly form jerked violently and began to shake.

  Murphy’s video inputs snapped on in time for him to watch the crew chief get sucked out through a hole in the fuselage. The VTOL shuddered and began to lose altitude. “This is the pilot,” the fly form said, “we have an onboard emergency and . . .”

  That was the moment when a second explosion blew the Titan in half. The aft section of the aircraft performed a series of cartwheels as it fell. Murphy felt the impact as the wreckage hit the top layer of the triple canopy jungle. The trees gave, and by doing so, they served as shock absorbers. Then the aft section of the VTOL fell to the point where a second layer of foliage waited to slow the wreck even more before it hit the ground. Murphy felt the violent impact as a host of alarms sounded.

  The Titan had multiple backup systems. One of them did its job by releasing the cyborg from slot seven. As that occurred Murphy’s onboard computer was burping status reports. One of his watertight seals had been damaged . . . And a message was scrolling across the bottom of his vision. “Your war form has been involved in a traumatic incident. Notify a tech at the earliest opportunity.” No shit, Murphy thought. I’ll get right on that. What about the others? The normally voluble Sergeant Omar was silent.

  The wreckage was tilted at an angle. A shipping module had broken free and was sitting in front of the cyborg. Murphy circled the obstruction to discover that the other legionnaires were dead. Judging from the blood and gore splattered on the walls the bio bods had been killed by shrapnel encased in the second bomb. Murphy felt a surge of sorrow. Six lives all snuffed out. Six friends gone. He would grieve when he could.

  The girl . . . Had Caitlin survived? Murphy turned to the left. A section of the Titan’s alloy skin had collapsed down during the crash. The metal groaned as Murphy placed a massive shoulder against the obstruction and pushed. There was a screeching sound as the barrier gave way, and that was when Murphy saw Caitlin. She was alive, but clutching a bloodied arm, and rocking back and forth. When she turned to look at him Murphy could see the tears running down her cheeks. “I’m hurt,” she said. “Don’t just stand there . . . Help me!”

  Murphy extended both of his arms for her to see. One was an air cooled .50 caliber machine gun, and the other was a fast recovery laser cannon. “I don’t have hands,” Murphy told her. “So you’ll have to perform first aid on yourself. But I’ll tell you what to do. Release your harness and maintain pressure on the wound as you do so.”

  “No!” Caitlin said emphatically. “I want a real person . . . Not a machine.”

  “I’m all you have,” Murphy told her. “The real people are dead. So, would you like my help? Or would you prefer to fend for yourself?”

  Murphy watched Caitlin take it in. “All of them are dead? You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure,” Murphy replied. “Like I said . . . Release your harness and keep the pressure on. Then you need to stand. See the first-aid kit clamped to the bulkhead? You need it. Reaching for it will force you to take the pressure off the wound. But, if you elevate your left arm, that will slow the bleeding while you release the clamps. Then we’ll go outside and patch you up.”

  Caitlin stared at him. Her eyes were huge. “I can’t do it.”

  Murphy shrugged. “Roger that . . . Good luck.” And with that he turned to go.

  “Wait!” Caitlin said. “Don’t go . . . I’m getting up.”

  Murphy turned back. “Good. Grab that first-aid kit and let’s get out of here. I haven’t seen any smoke, but you never know. This thing could blow.”

  That seemed to get through to Caitlin who stood, made her way over to the first-aid kit, and fumbled with the latches. The plastic case came free.

  “Well done,” Murphy said. “Tuck it under your left arm, put the pressure on again, and look to your right.”

  Caitlin obeyed, and was about to ask why, when Murphy fired the cannon. More than a dozen energy bolts were required to outline a new door. But a powerful kick was sufficient to open it up. Murphy stepped out onto solid ground and turned to face the ship. “Now it’s your turn.”

  “I feel dizzy,” Caitlin said.

  “Step through the opening and grab my arm.”

  Caitlin obeyed. Murphy could barely feel the pressure she put on the machine gun. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go over there . . . We’ll sit under that tree.”

  Very little sunlight was able to penetrate the layers of foliage above. So there was hardly any undergrowth. That made it easy for Caitlin to cross a small clearing to the point where she could sit on a fallen tree. Murphy paused to check his readouts for indications of electro-mechanical activity, incoming heat signatures, or radio chatter. There were none. And that wasn’t surprising. No more than fifteen minutes had passed since the crash.

  But it pays to be careful so Murphy activated his personal drone. It was about the size of a hummingbird, equally agile, and generated a soft buzzing sound as it emerged from a recess near Murphy’s left shoulder. The device hovered in front of Murphy as the cyborg eyed a menu of standard commands and chose three of them. Then the tiny device took off. That meant Murphy could “see” what the drone saw, and react accordingly.

  Caitlin had opened the first-aid kit by then and was staring at the tightly packed contents. “First you need to clean and disinfect the wound,” Murphy told her. “I don’t know if Saa-Na is home to microbes that can hurt us. But if it is, you can bet that the right bug killers are in that kit. Once the cut is clean we’ll decide what to do next.”

  “It hurts,” Caitlin complained.

  “Roger that,” Murphy replied. “So let’s get this over with.”

  Caitlin managed to open a packet, remove a moistened towelette, and wipe most of the blood away. Murphy swore silently. The cut on Caitlin’s left forearm was about three inches long and oozing blood. Not gushing, thank God . . . But oozing.

  “Okay,” Murphy said. “You could pull the margins together with butterfly closures, or you could close it with sutures. That’s what I would do. Sutures will hold up better while you’re running through the jungle.”

  “Or,” Caitlin said pointedly, “I can wait for the medics to get here. How soon will they arrive?”

  “I don’t know,” Murphy replied. “It could be minutes or days.”

  Caitlin frowned. “But you have a radio, and you called for help, right?”

  “No, I didn’t call for help,” Murphy replied. “Because I don’t know who might respond. Would it be your father? And the people who work for him? Or the folks who placed the bombs in your luggage?”