Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(101)
The Republic troops fought very well. It was their first real battle and they gave as good as they got. Unfortunately, that ratio couldn’t be sustained and they simply hadn’t been prepared for the savagery of their enemy. At close quarters, the Republic’s superior weapons gave them little advantage, and all five of the Grik’s “target” legions, as well as the 23rd and 5th (of the 1st Army) and the 16th and 21st (of the 3rd), were gutted in the vicious hand-to-hand fighting that ensued. Even Bekiaa and Courtney couldn’t have prepared them for the discipline they’d faced, combined with the determination to, even outnumbered, inflict the greatest possible damage they possibly could. They’d seen the latter before, to a degree, but never the former to such an extent. That had been frighteningly new to them all. Now all that remained was to count the cost and decide what to do next.
General Marcus Kim and his staff rode carefully, grimly, through the abattoir where perhaps a quarter of his 3rd Army had died. Its commander, another human named General Modius, stood wearily to meet them as they approached the growing lake of wounded being carried from where the worst fighting had been. Modius’s pale face was anxious, his hands clasped before him. “I—I don’t know what . . .”
Kim held up his hand. “It wasn’t your fault, General. Continue your work here, caring for our wounded.” Modius bowed his head, and Kim and his staff moved on. Around the toppled barricade of wagons, the bodies were so thick on the ground that they were forced to dismount. Most of the dead were Grik, lying in bloody, disemboweled heaps, and the stench was overwhelming. Details were removing the Republic dead and wounded, and had been for some time. The Grik wounded were bayonetted or shot and then dragged into great mounds of ragged, oozing flesh. Kim had ordered that some be taken prisoner, if practicable, but apparently enough men and ’Cats had died or been wounded in the attempt that it was universally deemed impracticable to continue. Kim wouldn’t push it. None among them spoke Grik, and the behavior and equipment of the enemy probably told them as much as they’d learn by questioning them. His eyes lit on a group of officers near the breastworks where they’d gathered, exhausted and covered with blood, in a space cleared of bodies. Healers moved among them or brought mugs of something to refresh their parched throats. He was amazed to find several people he’d never expected to see alive again.
“That’s enough, you carrion-clawing buggers!” cried Courtney Bradford. Inquisitor Choon, bloody and coatless, was helping Optio Meek, his left arm in a red-splashed sling, hold Courtney, facedown, on a blanket. General Taal, also steeped in blood, appeared to be supervising. Kim was particularly surprised to see Meek. The young optio had delivered his message and bolted directly back to the fight so quickly that he’d forgotten the rifle he’d brought to the pavilion. Courtney heaved and cursed again, fighting their efforts to restrain him while a healer and his assistant worked on the Australian’s right upper calf. Bekiaa-Sab-At, her once-white armor now a dark black-red, stood a little apart, leaning on an equally red-stained rifle, its bayonet encrusted, lumpy and dark. Beside her, dwarfing her, was a tall, black prefect. Both were watching the operation, but occasionally glanced over a shattered wagon at the distant trees.
“It’s just a damned, bloody scratch!” Courtney ranted, his face buried in the blanket. “I’m sure there are others who need your torment more than I!”
“‘Bloody scraatch’ is right,” the gruff Lemurian healer growled. “And you could bleed to death for all I care, but Gen’raal Kim might be annoyed if the am-baas-ador from our allies died of obstin-aacy. Now quit squirming so I can finish—and get to those who do need me more!”
Chastened, Courtney fell silent, but turned his head and saw Kim approach. “General!” he said.
Choon and Taal both moved to rise, but Kim motioned them to continue what they were doing. “No! Don’t let him up. The healers may not catch him again.” He glared at Courtney. “You had no business in the middle of the fight, Ambassador Bradford,” he scolded lightly.
“Well, I wasn’t really in the middle. A damned Grik shot a musket ball through my leg and killed the horse I was riding, poor creature. A musket ball,” he repeated, lowering his voice to an indignant murmur before he continued. “The horse laid down on me and kept me quite immobilized through the fiercest fighting. I did almost nothing and was hardly noticed by the enemy. It was rather frightening, however, I must say. Lying there as helpless as a babe, with Grik running to and fro!”
“He wasn’t as helpless as he claims, General,” Choon stated. “He kept a grip on his rifle and killed many Grik, even while trapped. I saw it myself.”
“Several might’ve done for me if not for that big bloke with Legate Bekiaa,” Courtney added. Kim shifted his gaze back to Bekiaa and Bele. It was then he noticed how . . . protectively the prefect hovered near the Allied Marine. Bekiaa herself seemed utterly void of expression. Her face was slack with exhaustion, with good reason, but her eyes betrayed nothing and she didn’t even blink a greeting. “I sent the charge as quickly as I could,” Kim told her, but looked away. “Still my fault, the whole disastrous mess. You warned me to reorganize our legions—and I did, but not well enough. I tried to compromise and it only made things worse. It was all my fault,” he repeated. Bekiaa seemed to break out of her trance and regarded him skeptically. “What will you do now?”