by K. C. Finn
Legion Reborn
K.C. Finn
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by K.C. Finn © 2018
One
“This is the story of the monkey and the king.”
Brows quirk around me. Pranjal shakes his hand at me, frowning.
“It’s the king and the monkey.”
“Will you shut up?” I snap. “I know what I’m doing.”
We are in a room at the Highlanders’ mountain base, a room which I hardly ever visit. The dark walls close in around our small company, the smell of mud and old paper hanging thick in the air. In one far corner, there is a smoothly made bed that doesn’t look like it’s been slept in for days, but the rest of the room is alive and well: given over for preparations of war. This is the bedroom of Malcolm Stryker, our leader, and he paces the floor behind our gathering, frosted eyes flashing to me now and then.
Kip Llewellyn leans forward in his chair, fingers pressed tightly together. “Raja, I thought you said you had a solution to the Reborn problem?”
I nod. “I do.”
The Westie scratches his little ashy beard. “Then why are we sitting yur for storytime?”
“If you let me tell it, you’ll know,” I reply.
I hold his stare a moment, his dark eyes glinting just like mine. Kip and I know only too well the dangers of facing the Reborn head on. Most people in this room have seen their terrifying force, their robotic augmented limbs and their brainwashed desire to do nothing but harm, even if it means their own destruction. The only ones who haven’t are Mumma and Pranjal, sitting close to my knee on the floor. Mumma reaches for me, the briefest squeeze of my hand before she goes back to holding Pranjal close.
A pang hits my gut. I’m the baby. It should have been me coddled like that, hidden away from all that I’ve seen and had to do. But once you’re in this life, the life of Legions and Systems, rebels and guns, blood and death, there’s no way back. If I can keep my mother and my youngest brother from witnessing the carnage I have had to endure, I will. The Reborn will never make it this far up the country, into the woods we call home. With any luck, they’ll never make it to any major battlefield. Not with the realisation that I have come to.
“The story begins in the forest, where the monkeys happily go about their business.”
I let my eyes flicker shut, head bowed as I remember the tale Mumma used to tell when I still had four living brothers.
“In the forest, they played and gathered food, living as a community. Fighting but making up, sorting things out amongst themselves. They had no real enemies in this part of the forest, and the monkeys thrived there, rising in number.
“But that was when the humans came along. The humans wanted the forest and its riches for themselves, and they were terrified of the sheer number of monkeys who seemed to rule the forest. So, they brought their knives and guns and traps, as humans often do. Carnage broke out in the monkey kingdom. Monkeys died at the hand of man, and men were savaged when the monkeys grouped together and fought back.
“The fight was noble, but the monkeys were slowly losing, and they knew it. The humans kept coming back, healed and more powerful than before. More resourceful, with better traps and better thoughts of violence in their heads. And this went on for generations, with the forest slowly dying around a war that was already lost.”
I eye up Pranjal. He clears his throat, grinning.
“Until,” I say, “one young monkey had a thought.”
My youngest brother always did the voice of the monkey when we were little. Now he stands, proud of his role amongst the room full of soldiers and survivors.
“Where do all these humans come from? In the monkey world, we have leaders. And in the human world, the same must be true.”
I smile at him, though the others are looking at us like we’ve both gone mad. Kip opens his mouth again, starting with a groan, but Malcolm suddenly turns and puts a hand on the Westie’s shoulder. His gnarled fingers dig deep.
“Let. Raja. Finish.”
Malcolm speaks quietly, looking down on the top of Kip’s ash-blonde head. Apryl, my dear friend, sits beside Kip and pats his knee, the contact far more gentle than Malcolm’s. I can’t bear the sound of the Highland General’s broken voice, so I look to Apryl instead. She nods, her eyes keen and bright, so I speak on.
“So the young monkey with the bright idea went in search of a leader of men. He travelled by night and hid in small spaces, until he discovered a man they called the King. The King was the leader of the men, and he desired the forest for himself. And the monkey went to the court of the King, to present himself, despite the fear and danger which he felt. But when the King laid eyes on the monkey, nothing bad happened. The King rose from his throne to inspect the creature.”
I wait, but no voice comes. That pain hits me hard inside again. Bhadrak, my eldest brother, used to do the voice of the king in our stories. My bold, brave brother, who we left bleeding out in our own little home in the tunnels of the Underground, on the day my life exploded into one of bloodshed and toil. Someone else clears their throat, and I turn my head to a darker corner. My father, Mad Adhikara, sits there next to Goddie. Goddie is tracing a line on the floor, scraping back and forth with his heavy titanium leg, but Dad stands up and comes to face Pranjal.
“I am the King of Men, and I have never seen such a beast before. What are you, small creature?”
I’m surprised my father can remember the story. I barely remember him being there to tell it, and it was always Mumma who kept our traditions alive as we lay in hiding from the world above. But Dad’s words are spot on, and Pranjal knows the answer to the king’s question well.
“I am a humble monkey, and there are many others like me dying at the hands of man. We maintain the forest because it is our home, and I entreat you, King, to spare us the attacks of your men.”
“Now the King,” I continue, raising a finger just like Mumma always does, “He had heard about monkeys, though he’d never seen one, and he too was fearful of their great numbers hiding in the forest. Though the monkeys knew that they were slowly losing the war on man, the King had no idea whether his forces outnumbered theirs or not. There were too many to count at once, and they were too good at hiding in the forest.”
“I bring no threat of violence to you, King,” Pranjal continues. “Only the observation that you are the one with the power to stop the actions of man.”
I nod at Pranjal, and he sits down, his part completed. “Though the monkey came in peace, the King still had his doubts. Seeing one of the small creatures himself, he noted the long, powerful tail and the sharp teeth when the creature spoke. There was potential for good, and potential for bad. The King’s decision would change the course of the future for both species.”
Dad straightens his spine, looking around the room before he speaks.
“I, the King of Men, command all men to stop their harm of the forest and its dwellers.”
“Was it kindness, or fear?” I ask. No-one dares answer. All eyes in the room are on me as Dad recedes. “And does it matter which, if the monkey and the king can now live in peace together?”
There’s a moment where my stomach riles. Tiny particles of heat are threatening to rise in my cheeks, because I know I’ve just told a fairy-tale to a room full of people who have long since l
eft those behind. Goddie is the first to shift in his seat, lifting his heavy leg back to a straighter angle. He rubs his chin, cool eyes shining at me, and then he breaks a grin.
“I get it.” He nods, then barks out a laugh. “Damn, Raja. Dat’s… I don’t know. Maybe.”
Apryl shakes her head. “Nu-uh. I’m gonna need more. Because I get the part where the monkeys are us, hiding in the woods and slowly losing the fight. But the King… Raja, it sounds like you’re asking us to go straight to Governor Prudell and ask for a parlay. Malcolm’s negotiated with her hundreds of times. We know it doesn’t work.”
I lean forward, my skin teeming with those little electric jolts.
“Prudell isn’t the King of the story.”
“Then, who is?” Apryl asks.
“For months now, I’ve been getting messages. From deep within the heart of the System itself.” I pause a moment, eyeing Malcolm as a name forms on my lips. “Delilah told me they were coming from her.”
At her name, the general turns away. He faces the dark recesses of his perfectly made bed, but his stiff shoulders and taut neck tell me he’s still listening.
“Delilah explained that a force took her over to bring me those messages, like there was some programming inside her that she couldn’t overcome.”
“You mean like de serial number?” Goddie chimes in. “Dat date, she was going to die. It came from inside her, whatever killed her. No control.”
I nod, a sour taste on my tongue. Malcolm remains still, a thin shadow on the horizon of my view.
“It happened to Stirling too, when he was at Doctor Lau’s temple. Both of them wrote me messages without being able to control it. They said they knew the messages were for me, but it was like another mind had entered theirs and told them to write them.”
Stirling is not at our meeting. He’s not at any meeting anymore, because the risk that he might be wired in as a spy for the System is far too great. It makes me ache to know I can’t tell him any of the brilliant ideas I’ve had, in these last few days since Delilah’s burial. But if my theory’s right, then maybe it will save his life along the way.
“I think there must be something at the System’s Heart.” My heart beats in my throat as the words vibrate out. “A force capable of overcoming any Reborn it chooses. That’s our King. We go to it and ask it to stop. It controls the Reborn, not Prudell, and I think it might be on our side.”
Mumma hugs her knees with one hand and her son with the other. “What do you suppose it is?”
She looks around. That, I don’t have an answer for. Goddie chews his thick lip, his expression blank. Apryl and Kip whisper something to one another, but don’t voice it aloud. Then Malcolm turns, his eyes bloodshot but sharp as daggers.
“It could be some kind of artificial intelligence,” he suggests. “An AI that’s gone rogue. If you mix enough human brains into a robot hive mind, it’s bound to get confused.”
“Hive mind?” Dad asks.
Malcolm nods. “Like bees. They have their own little brains with their own agenda, but the theory goes that they are all connected to the hive. If it has needs or it’s in danger, all bees act the same way. They drop everything to do as the hive commands.”
“If it’s an AI, I guess we could learn how it works?” Apryl rubs her palms together, slowly nodding. She looks brighter than before. “Talk to it, or hack it if it doesn’t comply.”
“It could be a real person.” Goddie spikes his finger, half-grinning. “Maybe der’s someone real deep in de System who wants to get out? Dey’re sending messages to de Bullet Girl of de revolution, like a signal. It makes good sense.”
I already know it does, and my chest heaves out a huge breath to hear everyone agreeing.
“Or it could be a trap.” Kip raises a blonde brow at me. “Did you consider that?”
Much as I admire Kip Llewellyn, and thank him deeply for his service in this war, he’s also still a huge pain in the arse sometimes. I know that every time I’ve seen those words written, they’ve clenched my heart so tight that I feel like all the emotions in me are ready to burst out. I can’t describe the incredible feeling of hope that this strange messenger gives me, and I’m damned if I’m going to believe that it’s another of Prudell’s sick schemes to draw me in.
“Well…” I chew my cheek a moment. “We need to consider all three possibilities in our analysis.”
Kip purses his lips, nodding at me. It’s not awkwardness in his face, not defiance, but something far more grave. Chatter breaks out amongst our little war council, and Malcolm steps through the pack to reach me. He nods firmly, but there’s no smile on his thin lips. After Delilah, I’m starting to wonder if there ever will be again.
“We need an audience with the king,” he says, “and I reckon I know how to get it.”
“Shoot, boss,” Goddie replies.
Malcolm rubs his thin jaw a moment. “We need a Reborn to talk to. Restrained, controlled, whilst we tap our way into the hive mind.”
“Stirling.”
The word leaves my lips before I can help it. He’s Reborn, though he spent days in hypnosis to break him from the assassin they tried to make of him. Those days where I talked to him for hours on end at Sunlight’s Edge seem a million miles away already. Weeks ago, that’s all. Four months and two weeks since the raid on my home, since my new life as a soldier began. It may as well be a lifetime.
Malcolm shakes his head. “Stirling’s no good. He’s repaired too well. We broke the lock on Stirling’s mind before we realised that we needed to know what the key looked like. It has to be the real thing. A freshly-caught Reborn.”
“So what?” Apryl asks. “We just wait around until Prudell sends one up here to kill us all?”
“No,” I say, standing up at last. “We need to give Prudell a reason to send us one. We need to stage an attack.”
Malcolm’s lips twitch as he looks down at me. Just a hint of a rise in the corners.
“I know just the place.”
Two
“I’m afraid of seeing something I’m not supposed to.”
I stand with my hands on my hips, and it’s the most girlish I’ve felt in a good long while. I’m looking into the dark folds of a supply tent, where the bright August sun bears down heavy on the dark camouflage fabric. Inside, a tall, thin boy with bright copper hair wipes lines of sweat from his brow. I sigh.
“Stir, you’re going to fry in there. Come out. It’s just trees. There’s nothing to see.”
Stirling holds a bandolier of bullets in his grip, half-way to filling it with brassy shells. He is standing, but the blades he has where his legs used to be make him bounce on the spot. He hops, foot to foot, eyeing me up. Somewhere deep, there’s a squirmy feeling in my gut, and if I could put my boot to it, I would. No good having the squirms. Stirling’s made his mind up on that score already. My hands stay firmly planted, eyes boring into his eyes. The oceans that so often shine there are calm and grey in the shadows of the tent.
Then, with a little wobble, Stirling comes out into the light. He looks around, his long, scarred neck craning to take in the bright emerald of the summer trees. He knows we’re in the forest, but he can’t know where. He made the trek with his head down, and sat blindfolded whilst we made markers and waypoints on the path to our temporary camp. Everything has to be done with care, now that we know the Reborn are all connected to the very centre of the System. Last month it almost cost us Malcolm, when Delilah gave the game away at the revolt at Sunlight’s Edge. We can’t afford to lose any more of our kind. Stirling heaves a sigh, his chest falling sharply.
“I hate fighting on the fly. I wish-”
“I know,” I cut in, nodding. “But we can’t tell you the target or the operation until we actually charge. Any kind of early warning and we’re screwed, Stir. If they get a hint of what we’re after.”
He bounces up suddenly, a finger to my lips. “Stop, Raja. You’ll do it. You know you’ll say too much.”
This close, his eyes are shining. The scent of him hits me in a wave, a mix of the musk of marching and his usual earthy smell. It’s been so long since I breathed him in that I hadn’t even realised I’d memorised that scent. Stirling lingers, his unstable footing lurching him closer to me. His finger rests heavy on my lips. It’s dumb, but I want to kiss it. I want to rip it away and let him tumble towards me. Him and me. That’s how things were supposed to be, before Valkyrie and the scientists who wrecked his body and mind. Before they put those deep black numbers onto his neck, the ones he’s tried to scratch raw so he doesn’t have to see them.
October 5th. Today is August 3rd.
“I’ll bet you have something important to do,” he says, letting his finger drop. “Loading bandoliers and ammo packs is work for boring bastards like me.”
He’s not wrong. My eyes flicker to the ground, one hand roaming over a comms device in my pocket. It’s been buzzing silently for a decent while now. Maybe he can hear it. I shrug my shoulders.
“I’ve got a few minutes.”
Stirling bounces back into the tent, returning a moment later with a stool and a bucket of bullets. He perches and resumes his work, loading the bandoliers shot by shot. Rapid fire. We’ll need it to keep a full-blown Reborn at bay if we’ve any hope of catching one. Stirling hasn’t seen the huge straps and buckles that are crated up with the rear crew, or the tranquiliser gun that Kip’s been tasked to use. The once-proud Junior Captain of the West Highland Revolt has no idea that we’re on the doorstep of a place he knows well.
“You’ll be fine when we mobilize.” I take a few steps closer to him. “You’ll know what to do.”
Stirling nods, but keeps his head low. I get how he feels, of course. If someone told me now, after all I’ve been through, that I couldn’t fight, I’d be devastated. Stirling spent seven years deep in the Legion, a boy spy receiving every ounce of enemy training and intel that he could get. He inked it into his legs, a permanent source of information, until the System doctors saw it. They cut his tattoos off along with his limbs, and gave him a mark in return. I step closer, clenching one fist as the other rests on his shoulder.
