Curse of the Legion

by Marshall S. Thomas

  I watched from a viewport as we approached Quaba 7. Two lovely white suns burnt far away in a deep cobalt sky. The massive planet glowed a luminous ochre in the sunlight and silvery seas flashed like watery mirrors. I could clearly see the thin sheet of atmosphere against the dark sky. Another lovely world—a miracle, created by God and touched with life. It was ours, one of the leading planets of the Crista Cluster, home to Fleetcom and Galactic Information and a host of other ConFree instruments. Instruments, I reminded myself, not institutions. Let's keep it that way!

  The Bad Girl dropped gracefully from orbit, circling the planet lazily, slowly losing altitude as it slid from dayside to nightside, the leading edges of the massive white wings starting to glow pink as we entered the atmosphere, a black Legion cross displayed prominently for all to see. We weren't ashamed of our colors. Tacships could hardland downside, for maximum efficiency, and that's what we were doing.

  ###

  "Wester! How wonderful to see you! I'm so sick of all these people! Lori, hold all calls!" Tara was looking her best, as usual, but I was determined not to let it affect me. Legion Personnel had sent me on directly to see the Deputy Minister of Galactic Information and here I was, in Tara's spacious office as she barked orders to her secretary in the outer office and came around from behind her desk to greet me in person.

  "Trooper Zero, reporting as ordered, Sir," I said coldly.

  "Oh, give it a rest, Wester. Let's sit over here." She hooked an arm around one of mine and guided me over to an airsofa by a wide armored window with a spectacular view of Quaba Port and the city of Forest Landing beyond it, hidden in greenery. "How are Priestess and Millie? How are the kids?"

  "They're fine, Tara. And how is Willard?" Willard was Tara's adopted son. We had found him on an Omni starship, orphaned by the O's holocaust, and he had been with Tara since then.

  "He wants to join the Legion, Wester."

  "I thought you were going to talk him out of that."

  "It's hopeless, Wester. We're all branded with the Legion cross. It's impossible to resist—it's like a curse, the curse of the Legion." She suddenly sounded very weary.

  "Why didn't you tell me about this assignment when you visited us? The girls are kind of—upset," I said.

  "I didn't know, Wester. I honestly didn't know. This just came up. You know I trust you. I'm meeting so many people, it's becoming increasingly hard to tell who's dependable and who isn't."

  "I'm happy teaching the kids, Tara."

  "I know you are, Wester, and I'm sorry. Please apologize for me to Priestess and Millie. But it can't be helped! We're going to war, Wester—we're actually already at war, and there's so much else going on as well. I need you. The Legion needs you. ConFree needs you. Your people need you!"

  "What have you got?" I knew it was impossible to fight her. Just accept it.

  She gave me a dazzling smile. "I knew I could depend on you, Wester! All right, here's your package." She pulled a fat datapak off a nearby table and dropped it onto my lap. "You've just been transferred to the Ministry of Galactic Information, with a rank of Commander. You've also been attached to the Ministry of Interstellar Relations, with a title of Attache. As far as anyone outside ConFree is concerned, you'll be on a diplomatic mission for the Ministry of Interstellar Relations. And if anyone asks, you're a Legion Commander on TDY to our Embassy in Santos. Your name is James Wester; I hope that's tenners with you."

  Santos! I tried to gather my thoughts. The rank of Commander came just over Senior Captain and just under General, in the Legion, or Admiral, in Fleetcom. I had been a Captain before—it was quite a jump. And now I was a diplomat, working for Galactic Information, Interstellar Relations, and the Legion, as a Commander, an Attache, and probably a lot of other things.

  "How long is this TDY?" I asked. First things first.

  "Just as long as it takes you to compile your report, Wester. Here's what I need…"

  "Why me? You've got a whole ministry of diplomats if you need info on what's going on in Santos. You've got an Embassy there. Why me?"

  Tara gave me a tired smile. "Would you like some dox, or tea, Wester?"

  "No thanks. Why me?"

  "Look out that window, Wester." I looked. A freighter was hardlaunching off in the distance, rising soundlessly from the port, then gaining speed and hurling itself up into the atmosphere. Five Legion fighters flashed past us, rattling the armored window plex, darting into a grey sky until they were tiny dots, lost in the smoky haze.

  "Our society works, Wester. It works perfectly. I can see, from up here, how perfectly it works. And this is the view you need. Yes, we have an Ambassador in Santos, and a hard-working staff. He's briefed me personally. The trouble is, when you're assigned to a foreign world, and charged with understanding it, you become very much caught up in your mission. The Ambassador knows all about Santos. He's very sympathetic and sensitive to the problems and needs of the newly independent world of Santos. As a matter of fact, when he was briefing me I had the impression that I was being briefed by the Ambassador from Santos, not the Ambassador to Santos. That's kind of an occupational hazard for our diplomats. They find themselves looking for ways that ConFree can assist the worlds to which they are assigned. But that's not our business, Wester. We represent the people of ConFree—not the people of Santos.

  "Why you?" she continued. "Because I need a fresh, unbiased view. Santos is inhabited by millions of Outworlders. Under the System, they were out of power. Under the new Santos regime, the Santos Socialrevolutionary Diversegalitarian Democooperative, they're even further out of power. The new outfit is run by a gang of Ormans who are turning it over to the Green Corps. The Green Corps are transgens who were introduced to Santos about a hundred years ago. They have roughly half human and half pig genes. The original idea was to create and exploit a non-human species for hard labor, primarily for agricultural work. They found it easier to do if you could control the creatures better and that was best done with human genes. They created the creatures with that in mind, using human genes to get bipedalism and limited intelligence, and they turned the transgens into extreme workaholics. It was a typical values-neutral System idea that worked for awhile—but now we're left with the result. The transgens—they insist on being called Newhumans now—have outbred everybody but they're no longer working, and it's a real mess. Your mission is not to solve the mess, but to visit Santos, observe the situation, and produce a written report on what, if anything, we can do about the Outworlders. They've asked for our assistance."

  "I don't know a damned thing about Santos, Tara."

  "Good! That's what I want. All you need to know for now is in that datapak. In there is the name of a representative of the Outworlder Cultural Alliance on Santos—it's a mostly social group. See him. Talk with him. I know him personally, and trust him, just like I trust you. His name is Len Kaspar. Doctor Len Kaspar—he's a medical doctor. I also list some leading Santos Ormans and transgens you should see—government officials. The Embassy will make those appointments for you, but don't tell them about the contact with Kaspar. You report directly to me, not to anyone else."

  "Wouldn't it be easier to just ask your diplomats to do this?"

  "We've been through a lot, Wester." She paused, and looked me over slowly. "I know exactly how your mind works. You're a realist. I'll believe you. I'll believe the product. That's the difference. You won't be gone long, Wester. It's an extremely important mission. Give me the facts. All I want is the truth. That's what we do in Galactic Information. Make conclusions if you want, but think hard about what you put in that report. Santos may be supporting Asumara in the coming unpleasantness. The Outworlder minority may be facing extermination. Or they may not. We don't know. That's why we need your input. Millions of lives may depend on the decisions we make after reading your document. Report back to me personally when you're through."

  I stood up. "All right, Tara. I'll do that."

  She stood up too, and traced an invisible Legion
cross over my face. "Go with God, Wester. May Deadman bless you."

  ###

  When I disembarked from the shuttle at Santos Starport I thought I had walked into a full-scale riot. The terminal building was overrun by a wild mob of transgens, thousands of them, all shrieking and squealing frantically, pushing and shoving desperately, all going in different directions, forcing their way through bodily, using their luggage like battering rams, males and females, all large and formidable and angry, one group attacking several transgen police clad in leather armor, the police striking back violently with long wooden staffs, whacking heads and shoulders, lashing out at men, women and children heedlessly. A howl arose from the crowd.

  "I say! Cease and desist, you fools!"

  "Pigs! How dare you strike at your own kind!"

  "Back, I say! We'll teach you to be so rash!"

  "Make way, make way! This is our terminal! The people rule here! Out, you mental midgets!"

  I was amazed at the size of most of these transgens. They were huge, fat, barrel-chested creatures, with squinty little swine eyes and noses that looked very piglike and stunted hairy pig ears and rolls of fat around their necks but with large, ponderous, powerful arms, and faces that appeared more human than pig. They wore brightly colored, almost clownish clothing. My first emotion upon seeing them in the flesh was pity. I felt so sorry for them. What a tragedy, to be not quite human and not quite pig.

  "Commander Wester? Is it you?" A young Outworlder in civvies stood before me, smiling.

  "That's me," I replied above the roar from the crowd. I was wearing some ill-fitting civvies as well. A Legion uniform would not be welcome in Santos.

  "Welcome to Santos! My name's Davilla, I'm from the Embassy. Follow me, I'll get you through Customs and out of this madhouse."

  "Thanks! I was just about to get back on the shuttle."

  "Don't feel bad, we all have the same reaction on arriving here. We meet all ConFree officials personally." He whacked a huge transgen on the back of the neck with a knuckleshocker and the creature slowly moved out of our way, not even glancing back.

  "You been here long?" I asked.

  "Four months."

  "Is the starport always like this? What's happening? Are those the Green Corps?"

  "Nothing. Yes, it's always like this. Nobody can depart or arrive, without all their relatives showing up. We don't call them the Green Corps anymore. The approved term is Newhumans."

  "I don't see anyone but transgens. Where's everybody else?"

  "Hiding. I'll give you the details later." We reached customs. Despite the mob, nobody else was in line there. Davilla plopped down my diplomatic passport on the counter and a large, fat transgen clerk in a tight khaki shirt looked it over curiously.

  "What's it like working here?" I asked Davilla.

  "It's like being assigned to a comic book," he said, apparently unconcerned about the clerk overhearing him.

  "Welcome to Santos!" The clerk gave me a toothy grin, baring yellow fangs. "We will secure your passport until your departure, to ensure it is not lost."

  "No you don't!" Davilla broke in. "That's a ConFree diplomatic passport, and Mr. Wester is on an important diplomatic mission and he must retain possession of his passport!"

  "That is most unusual…" the transgen began.

  "It's not unusual at all! It's standard practice! You put the entry stamp in the passport and give it back to the traveller! That's the procedure!"

  "Not at all, sir. I have been instructed…"

  "Don't give me that! I know exactly what your instructions are! The ConFree Embassy has received details from your Ministry of Customs. Here they are! Would you like to see them? Perhaps you're not familiar with the customs procedures?" He pulled some papers from his jacket.

  "I have no need to see correspondence to your Embassy. I know my instructions, sir!"

  "I demand to see your supervisor!"

  "I am the supervisor here."

  "No you're not! You're a clerk! Shall I call my Embassy? My Ambassador knows your Minister of Customs personally." Davilla whipped out a comset.

  "It's highly irregular. If you want me to do something irregular, you should at least make a contribution to the Newhumans Benevolent Fund."

  Davilla punched a few keys on the comset, ignoring the official.

  "Have a pleasant day, sir," the transgen said, handing me back my passport.

  "Thank you, sir," Davilla said to the transgen.

  "They love it when you call them 'sir,'" Davilla said as we walked to his aircar through scruffy gangs of tattooed young transgens who appeared to be targeting us for attack. "It's just like working in an insane asylum."

  ###

  "You need not be concerned about the Outworlder people," the Minister of Equality assured me. "They have exactly the same rights and privileges as do the Newhuman population. We are all equal here on Santos." The Minister was a huge, fat transgen with darkish skin, bristly hairs sprouting from scalp and ears, gross rolls of fat hanging from his cheeks and neck, animal eyes that reflected no apparent intelligence, and a wide, wet snout. He was not an attractive customer but I tried to remain unbiased about what he was saying.

  "Your tea, sir." A young and quite beautiful Outworlder girl entered the spacious office with a tray heavily laden with a silvery tea set. She gently set it on the Minister's desk and poured out tea for us both. She looked like a midschool girl. Her little skirt didn't quite hide her panties.

  "Thank you, Suzie," the Minister smiled at her as she departed. He was dressed quite conservatively except for the fluorescent violet tie. His silky suit must have been very expensive and he wore a delicate golden chron and several golden ear-rings.

  "Mist Mountain Tea," the Minister gestured with his cup. "Try it, please. It's our export quality." I sipped at the tea—it was indeed quite good—light and crisp. The Minister's office was luxurious, a peaceful oasis of dark polished wood, blank d-screens and decorative maps up on the walls. A wall chron ticked soothingly somewhere behind me.

  "Under the System, the Outworlders regarded themselves as our superiors," the Minister continued. "Although they were also slaves to the System, they took advantage of the situation and treated us as their inferiors, while they were the overseers on the agricultural plantations. Their behavior was contemptible. Now that we have overthrown the corrupt System, they are the first to cry and complain about their rights. We have no sympathy, I repeat, no sympathy with these hypocritical opportunists. However, they lie to you if they say they are ill-treated by us. We are all equal here in the Santos Socialrevolutionary Diversegalitarian Democooperative. Equality is the hallmark of the SSDD. Your Outworlders are not used to being treated as equals. They believe they are superior to us, and they wish to separate themselves from our egalitarian ideals, indeed from our society. How can we permit that? We are all citizens of the SSDD, equal in the eyes of the law."

  A young Outworlder male in civvies entered the room quietly from an adjoining office and unobtrusively approached the Minister. "Sir? Excuse me. The Roseland Directive." He placed a few sheets of paper on the desk and the Minister signed the documents without a word. The Outworlder recovered the papers and withdrew.

  "Another Outworlder plantation returns to the people, with a minimum of bloodshed I may add," he said. "A social revolution must transfer ownership from exploiters to exploited, and this is why your Outworlders are upset. Hypocrites! They always complained about the System, but they participated in the system, while the Newhumans sweated in the fields. Well, that's over now—and it's a good thing. You come right back here to me if they tell you any lies! Their problem is they can't stand equality. It's unthinkable to them!"

  ###

  "Mr. Wester? I'm Len Kaspar. It's wonderful to meet you!" He greeted me in my hotel lobby with a firm handshake. He was an Outwolder and obviously a mortal—it always shocked me to see Outworlder mortals, because in ConFree aging and death was regarded as a horror from the Age of Chaos, somethin
g that didn't happen to Outworlders. But there were billions of Outworlders still in the Inners, in the Gulf and the Gassies, people without representation, people who had no choice. He must have been what mortals call "middle-aged" as he had some grey showing in his hair and a few fine wrinkles around his eyes. He was tall and well built and looked strong and healthy despite his mortality.

  "Dr. Kaspar, thanks for coming," I said. "I'm looking forward to our discussion."

  "My aircar's right outside, please follow me." We stepped out the hotel's main entrance past the transgen security guards to a line of parked aircars. It was early evening. Kaspar passed some money to a couple of lurking transgen thugs and triggered his aircar doors open. I hopped into the passenger side.

  "What was that all about?" I asked.

  "Protection," he replied. "They 'guard' your car. If you don't pay, they trash it. It's not easy to make a living here."

  "You don't mind paying them?"

  "It's not much—we're used to it." We slipped into a traffic lane and floated away from the hotel. Several rocks smashed violently against our windows and I caught a glimpse of a couple of transgen kids screaming something and hurling more rocks. Kaspar ignored them, punching the car into the sky.

  "What the hell was that?" I asked.

  "Hate rocks. They hate us. They attack us every chance they get. That's why the car is armored. It's not just rocks."