Legion Reborn

by K. C. Finn

  Apryl waves her left hand at me, and I nod. It’s Briggs’s left hand that’s being overactive. I’m convinced now that he doesn’t know it’s doing it. Apryl gives me another scrap of paper and her pen, and I quietly sneak my way along the floorboards in front of the dormant beast.

  “Perhaps I ought not to judge people at first glance so much,” Briggs muses.

  I’m under his hulking chin when he says it, inches from getting to his tied down hard and the fidgety hand. The comment gives me pause.

  “Look at you two, for example. You’d have made fine soldiers, in the end, for Caitlynne’s new world. You still would.”

  When I slip the pen into his hand, Briggs says nothing. The rest of his body doesn’t even react. I feel his breath fogging the air as I lower myself, lying down under his torso to slide the paper under the pen too.

  “Gee thanks, man.” Apryl says from the desk. “But it ain’t that simple. We became good fighters because we had a good cause. Could happen to anyone under those circumstances.”

  The pen scratches onto the page, and I clamp the corners to keep it still. The hand’s movements start to make sense. It’s drawing. Lines and shapes and scrawled labels in small, precise handwriting. Briggs snorts, shaking the cloth bag right above my head.

  “You really think bringing down the System is the way forward, don’t you?” The SC heaves a sigh, but his wayward hand is still drawing away happily. “You kids don’t know the world that came before this one. Something had to be done, and Caitlynne had the vision to do it.”

  The pen drops from the hand, the page filled with lines, words and symbols. I look to Apryl, and she makes a dipping motion with her hand, then points at the screen. The hand is limp, the signal lost. I pull the paper out from under Briggs’s bonds, sliding away reverse-commando style until I can stand up. Apryl and I leave the room as quietly as possible, with Briggs still rambling to himself. Our guard takes our place and we close the door, gathering in the corridor to survey the drawing.

  “It’s a map,” Apryl muses, her voice half-whispered.

  “Yeah, but of what? Of where?”

  It looks like a blueprint to a building, and though it was drawn freehand by Briggs, it may as well be a printout for its keen precision. It is like an architect’s drawing, its lines perfectly straight and its labels centred exactly on their targets. There are rooms marked SERVER and BANK, and lines which seem to represent cables or electricals. Apryl takes the paper from me, following some of them with her fingertips.

  “All the wiring leads to this central chamber,” she says, pointing to a spot marked with just the letter B. “This is it, Raja. This building, wherever it is, is the Heart of the System. It’s where your messages are coming from.”

  “And it wants us to find it.” I nod, fists clenched tight.

  “I’ll keep a pen and paper handy for the Heart whilst I work on Briggs and the code.” Apryl puts a hand on my shoulder. “Who knows what else it might be able to tell us? We did it. We got what Malcolm wanted.”

  Her eyes are glistening, and they make mine glimmer too. I blink it away, letting her pull me into a brief hug. Finally, the world seems just a little lighter.

  Eleven

  Two days have passed since the breakthrough with Briggs. Though my nights are filled with terrible visions of broken fingers, shiny Reavers and blood red lips that speak to me in riddles, my days are better than they were. I haven’t felt the rush of rage nearly half as bad, and I am able to eat and think without the constant interruption of emotion. It makes the night time hell, but I’ll take it over the mess I was in before. I lie there sometimes, thinking about Malcolm’s untouched bed at the base, and now I feel even more attuned to him than I was.

  Operations are moving well. Mumma and Pranjal have taken over the kitchen, creating a ration system to combat the siege on our doorstep, and keep us all going as long as possible. Dad is the chief architect of our escape, and furniture is slowly vanishing from the cabins in the yard to be turned into support structures for the tunnels. Every time I pass the inner courtyard of the Legion, I see a different group of legionnaires pulling bedframes apart and taking sheets off metal off lockers and cabinets.

  The kids work like ants, these small creatures carrying huge objects in neat lines. The tunnel work is happening at the south-west wall, under a canopy that wafts a scent of dirt and sweat around the clock. Teams from the Bastion work in shifts for constant progress, and the labour of several hundred people is paying off fast. We’ve had our objectors, of course, and troublemakers who don’t even believe the truth that the System itself was shooting at them the other morning, but they’ve been contained until they can learn to shut their mouths.

  We found Bartlett, at last. The kids had locked him in a storage cabinet in the Bastion, after a few had roughed him up pretty bad. Now that the space is under control, most of our prisoners subdued, we’ve been able to go in and retrieve him. He’s in medical, dosed up to the eyeballs to keep him sedated and under control. I sometimes wish I could join him because, despite his battered face and body, Bartlett looks ludicrously happy under the influence of the pain killing drugs. Spaced out from reality, and the repercussions he will soon face for losing control of his Legion.

  I leave the morning meeting with a swell of progress in my chest, and a small list in my hand. Everyone from our corps will get one today, and it’s something I’ve been waiting for eagerly. This is the AMJ – Apryl May June’s new code of language – and it means I can have a conversation that I’ve wanted to have for weeks. I scour every inch of the Legion, walking its halls and peering into offices and supply rooms, until I find the one I’ve been looking for.

  Stirling is with his mother, in her office at the entryway to the Legion itself. He and Sheila have had their lists delivered, the AMJ codes sitting side by side on Sheila’s metal desk. Someone has cleaned Cornell’s blood off it, but they haven’t managed to scour the same stains from the floor. When I arrive, the pair of them are silent, but sitting together poring over a textbook. Sheila points as Stirling’s oceanic eyes scan the page to and fro. I almost turn back, but my hand takes me over to knock at the open doorway.

  “Raja.”

  He says my name with a lift in his voice. I’ve barely seen him the last few days, just a passing nod in the corridor or a wave from a window. Now, Stirling stands up, closing his book. He glances down at Sheila, and then she gets to her feet too.

  “If Raja needs to speak to you, I should go.”

  Sheila begins to approach me, her tall form stooped a little so she doesn’t meet my eye.

  “Don’t go far,” I tell her. “We need to have a chat, once you’ve learned your AMJ.”

  Sheila retreats a few steps, retrieving her list. It’s then that she looks up properly, meeting my eyes, and I see a sting there that I’ve never noticed before. Her expression is even, but there’s something steely and piercing in the way she studies my face.

  “Sir, yes Sir.”

  Her footsteps echo away, and a shiver trickles down the bones of my back. I turn to Stirling, a brow raised.

  “Is she okay?”

  He shakes his head, beckoning me closer. I shut the door behind me, and Stirling retrieves his copy of the code before he sits back down beyond the desk. I take the other seat, still warm from Sheila’s presence, and I find myself looking at the book on Stirling’s lap.

  “Medical procedures?” I ask, reading the title.

  Stirling nods. “She keeps talking about the future. You know, fixing my legs and that.”

  “The future?” I repeat, but then it all sinks in.

  Stirling hangs his head. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t tell her.”

  His hand roams up his neck, to the black numbers embedded over the lean muscle there. Stirling’s mother still has no idea that he’s going to die when that clock runs out. In his other hand, the code flutters in a loose grip. I touch his wrist, bringing that one closer. Touching him is a rare thrill the
se days, my skin tingling despite this broken little moment. Stirling sniffs suddenly, running his other hand through his copper-bright hair. It could do with a wash and cut: the tips are starting to curl. He turns the little code pamphlet over in his hands a few times, scanning it as he did the medical book.

  “So this means everyone can talk to me again?”

  I nod, breaking a grin. “Not just you, big head. It means we can talk safely as a unit, no matter where we are, without fear of being spied on.”

  “And yet the first thing you did was come and talk to me.” He looks at me, wiggling a brow.

  I shove his shoulder, but my cheeks are flushed. “I want to practice. And yes. Fine. I wanted to talk to you.”

  Stirling gathers his list up, studying it hard. His body takes on a curve as he cranes his lanky frame, leaning forward.

  “I’ve been dying to ask you about…” His eyes flicker down the page. “Grandpa.” He smirks, air pushing at his lips. “Really?”

  It’s the new code word for Briggs, because Apryl is a fantastic human being. How she can manage to bring smiles to all faces when talking about such a monster is a real talent.

  “Grandpa’s cranky and grouchy, as you’d expect.” I lean in too, my lips tingling like some conspiratorial spy. “He’s full of stories about the olden days. Stories we’re recording on paper.”

  “I hear his arms and legs aren’t so good right now?” Stirling asks.

  “He’s pretty helpless,” I say, my grin matching his. “And you know Grandpa. He just hates to be helpless.”

  “Amazing.” Stirling rubs his hands together, picking up the list again. “I love this. God bless Apryl.” He thumbs through the words. “Is there any news about… Hadrian?”

  The Scourge of Hadrian. It’s what they used to call Malcolm when he first took up a position as a rebel leader. Surprisingly, it wasn’t on the hit list during Apryl’s tests.

  “That’s what I need to talk to your mum about, actually. There’s a lad here who might know something too. Goddie’s working on him for me.”

  The twitch in Stirling’s throat is palpable, but he keeps smiling. He reaches for me, a hand on my knee, and it sends a wave of heat into my legs.

  “You’re doing so well. Everything under control. Everything chill. I’m amazed by you R-”

  “Uh-uh,” I say, tapping his hand.

  Stirling looks at the list again. My name is on it, right next to Malcolm’s. I can’t be Raja anymore, at least not in front of him or any true Reborns. Stirling quirks a brow, then shrugs.

  “So I’m supposed to call you… Boss?”

  I push back my grin, but not quite all the way. “Blame Apryl for that one.”

  The young Highlander nods, and I feel that pang for him that I did when Goddie told him the truth about Malcolm reappointing the Junior Leader position. I’ve taken his job, not just because he was absent but because I’m doing it better than him now. Maybe I shouldn’t be guilty. I’ve put my life on the line for Malcolm, over and over now. But I feel for what he’s lost, more than just in his body and mind. I hold his hand where it rests on my knee, shifting closer.

  Something rustles in my pocket, and I gasp a little. Stirling looks up at me, his lips parted ever so slightly.

  “I have something for you,” I say. “I almost forgot.”

  I unearth the photograph that I took from Bartlett’s office. As I hand it to Stirling, there’s a creak at the door, and Sheila pokes her head back in. She looks like she’s about to speak, but I feel Stirling take the picture out of my grip, and Sheila’s eyes catch it. She’s back now, rounding her son to look at the image with him. Stirling puts a hand over his mouth, shaking his head.

  “Ah, wow. It’s Dad. I’ve never seen this one. Thanks R- I mean, thanks Boss.”

  “Where on earth did you find that?” Sheila asks.

  Her eyes still have that taut look around them, her lips twitching as she watches me for an answer. I don’t know what’s up with her, but I need her co-operation for the questions I have to ask.

  “The office of Doctor Ash-hole,” I reply.

  Sheila’s look is horrified. Stirling laughs.

  “Mum, read your code sheet.”

  Bartlett. Named for his ashy beard and even ashier attitude. Sheila rolls her eyes, then examines the picture more closely. She leans in, holding Stirling’s shoulders, a faint smile relaxing her lips at last.

  “We were good back then, the three of us. Such good friends. Working for…” She leans back, rifling in her white coat pockets for her code, then continues. “Working for the Big Kahuna without even knowing it. It was the TOH project, for the new century. We were designing biomechanics to help the disabled walk and function again. No prizes for guessing how that’s been misused by…” She glances again at the code. “The Evil One? Oh for goodness sake, this code is-”

  “Necessary,” I cut in.

  Sheila stops dead. Whatever issue is making her tense around me, she still has respect for the chain of command. She moves herself between Stirling and I, perching on her desk and looking down at us both.

  “Everyone worked for that project,” Stirling muses. “You, Dad, Delilah, Uncle… Hadrian. Why? Why did you think it was a good idea?”

  “Because it was, son,” Sheila says. Her eyes glaze on the far wall of the office. “You might think things are bad now, but in some ways they were worse before the Fall of London. Communities fighting amongst themselves, a nation divided by hatred. Fascism rising out of all control, until even the far left turned militant and violent to combat it. When The Evil One came along, she wasn’t so evil compared to that. All right, there were things we didn’t know about the full agenda, but she had solutions for containing the good and casting out the bad. Building walls to keep them out. A lot of people went in for it. Voted to give her the power to act.”

  I know virtually nothing about the history of this world before I was born, much less the intricate steps of power that Prudell must have taken to be able to build an army strong enough to overtake a nation. It makes sense that people agreed with her then, as some of them still do now. But if there’s one thing Sheila’s story teaches me, it’s courage.

  “If everything was overturned once by popular belief, it can be done again.”

  Sheila raises a red brow harshly. “You still think so? After how many people have died and suffered for your rebellion?”

  My rebellion? It takes a moment to sink in, but I think I get her testiness now. It seems that in taking Malcolm’s role as leader, I’ve inherited guilt and flack from his sister too. Sheila folds her arms, waiting, and she seems so different now than the first time I was in this room. When I was just another poor kid that she could help in a low-key way. When it wasn’t life and death and her son’s body and mind on the line. When her brother wasn’t either dead or dying in her arms.

  “Tell me what you can about the Beetles in the wasteland. I’ve heard tell they’ve been roaming around here for a while now.”

  Sheila has to fumble down her codebook to translate Beetles into Reavers. Her shoulders relax at the question, and she leans back again on the desk, shaking her head.

  “Hadrian got very interested in them too,” she says dryly. “Those Beetles are not supposed to be here, I know that much. They come around every few days, no predictable pattern, and that’s been happening since the end of June. No reason for it. No information passed to us from anywhere to explain why.”

  “Circling the Legion?” I ask.

  “Pretty much,” she answers.

  “Why?”

  “That I can’t tell you.” Sheila raises a hand to her face, rubbing her eyes then down her pale cheeks. Everything about her looks raw and sore. “All I know is that my dear brother had me reporting patterns of appearance to him. Frequency of sighting, number of Beetles seen. He didn’t tell me why. He didn’t tell me anything before…”

  She breaks. It’s so sudden and ferocious, the way her face explodes from one of
tight resilience into wild tears. Stirling leaps up and takes his mother in his arms, her wild sobs shaking his lean shoulders. It’s my cue to leave. Sheila can’t tell me any more than she already has, and the sight of her breakdown roils my gut. Maybe she blames me for Malcolm’s death, too.

  “I’ve got it covered here,” Stirling says, one hand patting his mother’s back. “Thank you, for everything. And thank Apryl too. It’s so good to talk to you.”

  His smile is endless in my mind. It’s sad, but I try to capture it, remembering every detail of his thin pink lips and his twinkling eyes. It’s not long before I won’t see them shine anymore. I’d kiss him goodbye right now if I could, whilst he looks so bright, but Stirling turns to take Sheila by the shoulders, speaking gently to her forehead as she sniffles. I turn my back, walking away as the soft whispers of his comfort fill the air.

  Twelve

  It’s another two days before everyone has the code down fully, and the sheets can be collected back in and destroyed. We burn them after breakfast in the courtyard, a little stack of paper debris added to the usual waste. It turns the smoke black as it rises in a thin stream to the sky, and it only takes minutes before I’m getting a radio through from Apryl in the computer suite. I rush to her, discovering that she and Kip are staring at another news report by Ivana Van Hope.

  BURNING SIGNALS DEATH AT LEGION HOSTAGE SITUATION

  This time they have sound. It takes a moment for the hammering in my ears to quell before Ivana’s bright voice fills my ears. She’s dressed in resplendent pink and white, far too clean and prissy for a warzone. The feed is live right now as our fire burns, the same clouds gathering in the hazy summer sky.

  “After six days of siege, the rebellious Highlanders and their fearsome leader Malcolm Stryker have begun to burn bodies of hostages from within the Legion. It’s not for this journalist to say alone, but experts suggest that this hostile sign is one that indicates their intentions are turning brutal. We may be left with no option but to storm the facility and hope for the best regarding the Legion’s poor, misguided children. If indeed, any are alive by the time we mobilize.”