Besides, they called it the Foreign Legion for a reason.
Every man in it, aside from the officers, was a foreigner. Or, at least, pretended to be. He’d heard that some Frenchies joined up under false identities, but had never met one. The Legion had offered him the chance to change his name and take on a new identity when he joined, in case he would rather forget his past life and start over. But he kept his own. What reason would he have to be ashamed of his life? He might have made mistakes, but they were his mistakes. He’d live with them.
“Alice, see anything?”
“The walls are blocking my sensors.”
The narrow windows beside the door of the nearest house were set about half a metre back below the mass of dirt that was piled over the curved side walls and roof. The dirt must be at least a metre thick. Thick enough to block the radiation from the worst solar storm… and thick enough to hide anyone inside from the suits’ sensors. If they had to fight, a hypersonic gauss round from his rifle might punch through the wall and kill someone inside, but he couldn’t shoot what he couldn’t see.
His heart pounded with the adrenaline rush. A street like this was the perfect place to stage an ambush.
Catch the section in a crossfire from houses on both sides, while they were surrounded by civilians. The Legion would lose, either way.
If they threw everything they had at the insurgents, those insurgents would drag out some dead kid after the battle, and blame the Legion. If the Legion retreated, they conceded the village to the insurgents.
The flag in the town square clattered as it fluttered against its white pole. Logan could see it above the roofs of the houses to the right, flying between the radiation sirens that stood on a pair of wooden poles at least a dozen metres tall.
The street opened out as they reached the square, and Bairamov slowed from a march to a walk.
The flag fluttered beside a building on the far side of the square, not much taller than the houses, but four or five times as wide. Government, most likely. Logan had learned in France that any building that big had to be something to do with the government, or the aristos. And this probably weren’t many aristos living in Gries.
A man wearing a crumpled suit and circular spectacles stepped out of the double doors at the front of the building, onto the dirt of the square. He waited as Volkov, Poulin and Alpha Team approached.
“Mr Mayor,” Poulin said.
“Good afternoon, mademoiselle. I was only just told of your arrival. We are so glad to have you visit our village.”
He held out his hand, then suddenly seemed to realize that, regardless of how strong Poulin’s own hands might be, the power-assisted fingers of her suit could crush his without even thinking about it. He made a vague attempt at a salute, instead.
Bravo Team stopped a few metres behind Volkov. Logan gasped down as much air as he could, while he had the chance.
But his heart didn’t even slow down. The adrenaline rush of standing there in the open surrounded by people who might want to kill him was making it pump faster than the exercise had on the way in.
The nearest cover they had were the buildings around the square, and they were a few seconds away by the time the suit built up speed and then stopped. Any competent ambush party would have men in them anyway, waiting to attack anyone who tried to hide beside them.
He looked toward the mayor. “Alice, scan him, will you?”
“Body temperature is high,” Alice said. “He is sweating.”
Logan could hardly miss the red face, the sun glinting from the drops of sweat rolling down the man’s skin, or the yellow-grey patches spreading across his white shirt where the sweat was soaking through the cloth.
But that could just be from the heat of the sun burning down on them, reflected back from the light brown dirt of the square and buildings.
Or the man could be scared out of his wits.
Which wouldn’t be surprising if he’d seen the vid of Petit Toulouse. Every colonist on New Strasbourg was probably imagining their head on a spike right now. What the insurgents had done might be evil, but it was great propaganda.
“Form a perimeter,” Volkov said.
“No,” Poulin said. “This is a friendly village. We will not come storming in here like an occupying army that doesn’t trust the people.”
“Fine. Alpha, introduce yourselves to the people in the buildings around the square. Bravo, take a patrol around the village.”
“That is not…” Poulin began.
Volkov turned toward Bairamov. “Show your faces, smile at the kids. Let the people here know we’re their friends. Exactly as our political officer says.”
For once, Poulin had no answer.
Logan suppressed a smile at Volkov turning Poulin’s own words against her. How could she argue with that?
Alpha moved toward the buildings. Curious faces peered out at the Legionnaires from windows and doors. The men nodded and waved at them.
“Have you seen any sign of the insurgents around here?” Poulin said.
The mayor shook his head. Fast.
“No insurgents here,” he said, waving his hands as he spoke. “We’ve never seen any sign of insurgents anywhere around the village. Never at all.”
Logan’s heart was still thumping hard as he followed Bairamov, Desoto and Gallo from the square.
If he was in charge of a village like this, would he be more afraid of the insurgents, or the Legion? Either could kill him. Poor sod probably just came here for a quiet life, and was now stuck in the middle of a civil war.
The kids were still watching the Legionnaires from the side of the square. They stood beside a building with wide windows and an open door, and a table on each side of the door piled with shiny trinkets. A middle-aged woman wrapped in a long dress of faded reds and yellows sat on a rough, wooden chair beside the tables, fanning herself with a wood and cloth fan in her right hand.
“Want to buy something, son?” she said as they approached.
Bairamov glanced toward the tables.
“No, but thanks, madame.”
They strolled on.
Logan kept his eyes moving over his sector, and tried not to stare at the locals as he passed them and they watched him go by. The ones who wanted him to stare at them were likely to be the ones who were trying to distract him from their friends with weapons hiding in the shadows.
A dog looked up at them from a gap between the houses. One side of its body still had fur, the other had only a few fuzzy patches between a mass of pink skin stretched tight over its ribs, and scarred by dozens of lumpy growths.
No-one paid any attention to the animal as it sat there. Must be hard being a stray, having to find a place to hide whenever the radiation storms came. It probably wouldn’t survive long enough to still be here if the Legion ever came back.
A girl raced out of the street to the left, her long grey skirt swinging around her legs as she moved, and a small brown bag banging against her side. Logan glanced her way and tightened his grip on his rifle, but Alice didn’t report any sign of weapons or any other threat.
“Please,” the girl said. “My father…”
She didn’t look any older than Logan’s sister had been when Morgan took her away. About the same height. Thinner, maybe. Her hair was long and brown, but not as red as Alice’s had been. Her body was shaking, and her eyes opened wide as she stared at the men.
“Alice, what do you see?” Logan whispered.
“No threats. No contacts.”
Bairamov took a step toward the girl. “How can we help you, mademoiselle?”
“My father is sick. Can you do something?”
Logan glanced at her, then back to his sector. Peering into the gaps between the houses, and up at the roofs, looking for anyone who might be hiding there ready to take a potshot while the girl distracted them. His heart was thudding again, and his palms were slick with sweat on the hand-grips inside the suit.