Andromeda's War (Legion of the Damned Book 3) by William C. Dietz Page B
Authors: William C. Dietz
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Hunter
’s hull would be used to construct the base, the ship’s drives would supply the power to run it, and its weapons would keep the fort safe from harm.
The
Head Hunter
’s commanding officer had been chosen because he was experienced enough to do the job but still qualified as expendable. His name was Spear Commander Ana-Ka and he had chosen to con the ship himself. The destroyer started to shake as it entered the atmosphere. The frame groaned, welds broke, and an alarm began to moan. The sound was similar to what a dying beast might produce. Nola-Ba was of the opinion that officers should never show emotion but couldn’t blame Ana-Ka as the retros fired, and he uttered a joyous bellow. The deck tilted, the shots on the screens disappeared, and the
Head Hunter
hit hard. “Shut the drives down,” Ana-Ka ordered, “but leave the emergency power on.”
Then, with the swagger typical of young officers everywhere, Ana-Ka turned to Nola-Ba. “Welcome to Savas, Admiral . . . I hope you enjoyed the ride.”
—
THE GREAT PANDU DESERT, PLANET SAVAS
The sun was still in the process of parting company with the eastern horizon, the vast expanse of sky was streaked with pink light, and the air was deliciously cool. It was Pudu’s favorite time of day. And that was fitting because he was chief of the northern tribe, also called the dawn people. His was the tribe that followed their katha eternally east while the southerners traveled west. The arrangement gave the grass path time to grow tall in between visits.
So there he was, sitting on a one-legged stool and drinking Jithi tea, when a rider approached from the south. The reddish zurna he rode galloped through the sprawl of domed tents and skidded to a stop not far from Pudu’s hoga. Guards offered salutes but made no attempt to intercept the rider.
Even at a distance, Pudu could recognize the lanky confidence typical of his firstborn son. His name was Ro Bola, and he was brave to a fault. Would he be chief one day? Sadly, no. That honor would fall to Pudu’s number two son.
But Bola didn’t know that and entered his father’s encampment with the swagger of the proven warrior that he was. Bola was more than six units tall. He had a bony, heat-dispersing head crest. It had been notched three times . . . And each notch symbolized a confirmed kill. His eyes were protected by semitransparent side lids designed to keep dust and sand from getting into them.
Bola paused to give his mother a wildflower that had probably been plucked while riding at full speed. Pudu had been capable of such feats in his younger days—and could remember the way the ground rushed past as he dangled from his zurna.
Having paid his respects to his mother, Bola made his way over to the spot where his father waited. A young female, one of dozens eager to capture Bola’s attention, hurried to bring a second stool. Bola thanked her and accepted a cup of tea from a second maiden before turning to his father. “Greetings, wise one . . . I see the light in your eyes. May it never grow dim.”
Pudu signaled acknowledgment. “It
will
dim . . . But not today. Welcome home.”
Bola took a sip of tea. “I bring news.”
Pudu knew that. Why else would his son make the long ride up from his station to the south? But a formal request would please the youngster, and he was willing to oblige. “How interesting . . . Please share it.”
“A huge starship landed next to Unda’s Belly,” Bola said, his eyes bright with excitement.
Because the northerners had been circling Savas for thousands of years, there had been plenty of opportunities to name each river, valley, and, in this case, a softly rounded hill. The crest of which resembled a belly. Or would if the person to whom it belonged was lying on his back and half-buried in the soil. That was the way the god Unda was said to sleep. Then, when Unda decided to roll over, the ground would shake.
So based on his son’s
’s hull would be used to construct the base, the ship’s drives would supply the power to run it, and its weapons would keep the fort safe from harm.
The
Head Hunter
’s commanding officer had been chosen because he was experienced enough to do the job but still qualified as expendable. His name was Spear Commander Ana-Ka and he had chosen to con the ship himself. The destroyer started to shake as it entered the atmosphere. The frame groaned, welds broke, and an alarm began to moan. The sound was similar to what a dying beast might produce. Nola-Ba was of the opinion that officers should never show emotion but couldn’t blame Ana-Ka as the retros fired, and he uttered a joyous bellow. The deck tilted, the shots on the screens disappeared, and the
Head Hunter
hit hard. “Shut the drives down,” Ana-Ka ordered, “but leave the emergency power on.”
Then, with the swagger typical of young officers everywhere, Ana-Ka turned to Nola-Ba. “Welcome to Savas, Admiral . . . I hope you enjoyed the ride.”
—
THE GREAT PANDU DESERT, PLANET SAVAS
The sun was still in the process of parting company with the eastern horizon, the vast expanse of sky was streaked with pink light, and the air was deliciously cool. It was Pudu’s favorite time of day. And that was fitting because he was chief of the northern tribe, also called the dawn people. His was the tribe that followed their katha eternally east while the southerners traveled west. The arrangement gave the grass path time to grow tall in between visits.
So there he was, sitting on a one-legged stool and drinking Jithi tea, when a rider approached from the south. The reddish zurna he rode galloped through the sprawl of domed tents and skidded to a stop not far from Pudu’s hoga. Guards offered salutes but made no attempt to intercept the rider.
Even at a distance, Pudu could recognize the lanky confidence typical of his firstborn son. His name was Ro Bola, and he was brave to a fault. Would he be chief one day? Sadly, no. That honor would fall to Pudu’s number two son.
But Bola didn’t know that and entered his father’s encampment with the swagger of the proven warrior that he was. Bola was more than six units tall. He had a bony, heat-dispersing head crest. It had been notched three times . . . And each notch symbolized a confirmed kill. His eyes were protected by semitransparent side lids designed to keep dust and sand from getting into them.
Bola paused to give his mother a wildflower that had probably been plucked while riding at full speed. Pudu had been capable of such feats in his younger days—and could remember the way the ground rushed past as he dangled from his zurna.
Having paid his respects to his mother, Bola made his way over to the spot where his father waited. A young female, one of dozens eager to capture Bola’s attention, hurried to bring a second stool. Bola thanked her and accepted a cup of tea from a second maiden before turning to his father. “Greetings, wise one . . . I see the light in your eyes. May it never grow dim.”
Pudu signaled acknowledgment. “It
will
dim . . . But not today. Welcome home.”
Bola took a sip of tea. “I bring news.”
Pudu knew that. Why else would his son make the long ride up from his station to the south? But a formal request would please the youngster, and he was willing to oblige. “How interesting . . . Please share it.”
“A huge starship landed next to Unda’s Belly,” Bola said, his eyes bright with excitement.
Because the northerners had been circling Savas for thousands of years, there had been plenty of opportunities to name each river, valley, and, in this case, a softly rounded hill. The crest of which resembled a belly. Or would if the person to whom it belonged was lying on his back and half-buried in the soil. That was the way the god Unda was said to sleep. Then, when Unda decided to roll over, the ground would shake.
So based on his son’s
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