Read Online The Last Legion: Book One of the Last Legion Series by Chris Bunch - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Chris Bunch
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a dozen supervisors, plus nearly fifty security and firemen just short of the bunker. It was a month before that division of Mellusin Mining was able to resume operations.
CHAPTER
8
“Looking for a
dec
named Ben Dill?” Garvin inquired of the legs sticking out of the Grierson’s drive compartment.
“Inside the tin can,” the muffled voice came. “Tell him from me he’s a dirty bastard.”
“Uhh,” Garvin responded, and went to the rear of the assault vehicle. As he did, an antenna swiveled, tracking him, then waggled back and forth like a hound who’s just lost the scent.
The ramp was down into the troop compartment, and inside was a man wielding a broom with great vigor. He was possibly the largest humanoid Garvin had ever seen outside the circus.
“
Dec
Dill?”
“That’s me,” the man said. “Armed, dangerous, and attitudinal with your basic Mark 1 Bristle Boomer.” He put the broom down and came out of the AV. Dill was in his mid-twenties, already balding, and had an amiable grin on his face. Garvin decided he didn’t want to be around when Dill lost the smile. He guessed he wasn’t supposed to salute, but brought himself to attention.
“Recruit Garvin Jaansma. Reporting.”
“Oh yeh,” Dill said. “You’re gonna be my new gunner. Relax. I ain’t an officer — I know both my parents. Welcome to Third Platoon, A Company, Second Infantry, and may the gods have mercy on whatever pieces you’ve promised them.” His voice easily changed to a bellow. “Awright, everybody! Unass the can!”
The legs came out of the drive compartment, became a grease-covered stocky man about Garvin’s age.
“Stanislaus Gorecki,” Dill introduced. “He’s the driver/wrench, mostly wrench.”
“So it’s my fault this pig runs one time out often?”
“Got to be somebody’s fault,” Dill said reasonably. “Not mine, ‘cause I outrank you, and sure can’t be the assholes in the Confederation who decided to issue us Mod. 2 Griersons instead of something livable, now could it?”
“Don’t complain,” Gorecki said. “We all could be crunchies, couldn’t we?”
“Strong point,” Dill said. Garvin was lost, and the vehicle commander took pity.
“Here’s the drill,” he explained. “Pigs though they be, there’s eight Griersons in each company. Takes two assault teams — that’s twenty muddy infantrymen — crunchies. One Grierson per platoon. The other four are Company headquarters, heavy weapons, maintenance/recovery, and signal vehicles.
“We’re part of A Company, and this Grierson is Third Platoon’s. But you don’t see the rest of Third Platoon hanging about here, do you? And if you look down the hangar, you see no more’n five people, plus idiots like the maintenance sergeant and his pukes, lurkin’ about, trying to appear busy. You know where the rest of the platoon is?
“Today they’re out painting rocks in front of Regimental Headquarters. Definitely part of learning to be a combat soldier.”
“I got you,” Garvin said.
“Study hard with us,” Gorecki said, “or you, too, could carry the mil-specialty of Shit Shoveler First Grade.”
Gorecki eyed Garvin. “You’re the guy we paraded for day before yesterday?”
“I am,” Garvin said hesitantly.
“I owe you one. I was supposed to orderly for
Mil
Fitzgerald’s mess, but she went and et with the
caud
at headquarters, all ‘cause of you.”
“Glad I could be of service.”
Garvin heard a clang from inside the Grierson, and a small woman with archaic glasses and straight shoulder-length hair that looked like it’d been styled with a butcher knife came out. She wore the three rank slashes of a
finf.
“Uh … hi,” she managed, nodding rapidly.
“This is our countermeasures yoodle,” Dill said. “Ho Kang. Garvin Jaansma. She’s a
finf
, so I’m the only one with rank enough to call her a yoodle.”
“Uh … hi,” she said again, promptly dismissed Garvin, and turned to Dill.
“Ben, I’m
CHAPTER
8
“Looking for a
dec
named Ben Dill?” Garvin inquired of the legs sticking out of the Grierson’s drive compartment.
“Inside the tin can,” the muffled voice came. “Tell him from me he’s a dirty bastard.”
“Uhh,” Garvin responded, and went to the rear of the assault vehicle. As he did, an antenna swiveled, tracking him, then waggled back and forth like a hound who’s just lost the scent.
The ramp was down into the troop compartment, and inside was a man wielding a broom with great vigor. He was possibly the largest humanoid Garvin had ever seen outside the circus.
“
Dec
Dill?”
“That’s me,” the man said. “Armed, dangerous, and attitudinal with your basic Mark 1 Bristle Boomer.” He put the broom down and came out of the AV. Dill was in his mid-twenties, already balding, and had an amiable grin on his face. Garvin decided he didn’t want to be around when Dill lost the smile. He guessed he wasn’t supposed to salute, but brought himself to attention.
“Recruit Garvin Jaansma. Reporting.”
“Oh yeh,” Dill said. “You’re gonna be my new gunner. Relax. I ain’t an officer — I know both my parents. Welcome to Third Platoon, A Company, Second Infantry, and may the gods have mercy on whatever pieces you’ve promised them.” His voice easily changed to a bellow. “Awright, everybody! Unass the can!”
The legs came out of the drive compartment, became a grease-covered stocky man about Garvin’s age.
“Stanislaus Gorecki,” Dill introduced. “He’s the driver/wrench, mostly wrench.”
“So it’s my fault this pig runs one time out often?”
“Got to be somebody’s fault,” Dill said reasonably. “Not mine, ‘cause I outrank you, and sure can’t be the assholes in the Confederation who decided to issue us Mod. 2 Griersons instead of something livable, now could it?”
“Don’t complain,” Gorecki said. “We all could be crunchies, couldn’t we?”
“Strong point,” Dill said. Garvin was lost, and the vehicle commander took pity.
“Here’s the drill,” he explained. “Pigs though they be, there’s eight Griersons in each company. Takes two assault teams — that’s twenty muddy infantrymen — crunchies. One Grierson per platoon. The other four are Company headquarters, heavy weapons, maintenance/recovery, and signal vehicles.
“We’re part of A Company, and this Grierson is Third Platoon’s. But you don’t see the rest of Third Platoon hanging about here, do you? And if you look down the hangar, you see no more’n five people, plus idiots like the maintenance sergeant and his pukes, lurkin’ about, trying to appear busy. You know where the rest of the platoon is?
“Today they’re out painting rocks in front of Regimental Headquarters. Definitely part of learning to be a combat soldier.”
“I got you,” Garvin said.
“Study hard with us,” Gorecki said, “or you, too, could carry the mil-specialty of Shit Shoveler First Grade.”
Gorecki eyed Garvin. “You’re the guy we paraded for day before yesterday?”
“I am,” Garvin said hesitantly.
“I owe you one. I was supposed to orderly for
Mil
Fitzgerald’s mess, but she went and et with the
caud
at headquarters, all ‘cause of you.”
“Glad I could be of service.”
Garvin heard a clang from inside the Grierson, and a small woman with archaic glasses and straight shoulder-length hair that looked like it’d been styled with a butcher knife came out. She wore the three rank slashes of a
finf.
“Uh … hi,” she managed, nodding rapidly.
“This is our countermeasures yoodle,” Dill said. “Ho Kang. Garvin Jaansma. She’s a
finf
, so I’m the only one with rank enough to call her a yoodle.”
“Uh … hi,” she said again, promptly dismissed Garvin, and turned to Dill.
“Ben, I’m
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