The Last Legion

by Chris Bunch

  Lir: "Crash, you bastards!"

  Yoshitaro: "Eat it!"

  Milot: "Hope your dick falls off!"

  Penwyth: "I screwed your sister!"

  Rada: "Your mother gives it away!"

  Only Faull stayed silent.

  "That's the spirit I like to see," the dec shouted, just as Njangu spotted Garvin at the controls of the combat car. He managed a feeble wave, thought Garvin recognized him, and the car swept past.

  Bastard, bastard, bastard, he thought. Knew I joined the wrong branch, and the Cooke banked back. He was too out of breath for more than a crude gesture, but a couple of the others found lung space for an obscenity.

  The Cooke was about a hundred meters past when Yoshitaro heard sudden silence. The combat car's antigrav went on automatically, and the Cooke bounced to a soft landing on the beach.

  The I&R runners were in hysterics, hearing the drive starter grind, grind, grind again, then they were even with the car.

  "Going anywhere soon?" Lir taunted.

  Dill grimaced.

  "Hey, Garvin," Njangu said. "It's a real interesting walk back. You'll have time to admire the wildlife."

  Jaansma recognized Yoshitaro and grinned for an instant, then hit the starter again.

  Njangu listened to the long grinding as the runners went around a bend, then heard nothing.

  "God sort of does paybacks when you're being a wisebutt, doesn't he?" Dill observed.

  "I wasn't saying anything, at least not much," Gorecki protested.

  "The innocent suffer with the guilty," Garvin said. "So we're gonna let him carry us back."

  "Awright," Ben said. "Gimme the com. I'll snivel for help."

  Garvin passed him the mike and heard the crack, saw a bright brass streak paint itself on the Cooke's hull about a finger length from his left arm, heard the boom of some sort of propellant weapon, then the burbling whine as the bullet ricocheted away.

  He stared at the mark of the near miss for one instant, then dived over the Cooke's side. He landed on top of Ben Dill, who was scrabbling for that enormous handgun.

  "Son of a bitch, son of a bitch," Dill was muttering, then he was up on his knees, peering at the nearby brush, pistol sweeping back and forth.

  The gun went off, nearly rupturing Jaansma's eardrums, then Dill was running for the brush. Garvin didn't know what to do, decided he'd rather be a brave idiot than a cowardly logician, went after the dec.

  Stanislaus wasn't far behind.

  They crashed through the brush, found Ben kneeling over some carefully piled branches. He held up a dull brass shell casing.

  "Look at the antique that bastard tried to kill me with," he said. "He must've made himself a bed, then lurked for a target, and only had the one bullet. Or else he ran out of courage."

  "Wonder why he didn't shoot at the crunchies," Gorecki said. "More of 'em, and a slower, easier target."

  "Guess he thought we were more important," Dill said.

  Stanislaus and Garvin were staring at each other, realization having penetrated at the same moment.

  "Somebody tried to frigging kill us," Gorecki said in a hushed tone.

  "No shiteedah," Dill growled, from his vast experience. "The big question is how in the hell did some goddamned bandit get all the way out here to Chance Island?"

  The three glanced reflexively across the bay toward Dharma.

  "We gonna go after him?" Stanislaus asked.

  Dill thought. "I'm not that sure he only had one bullet," he said. "And what would I do with you guys? He'd probably sneak around and pot you while I was thundering around in the tules." He shook his head. "I'm still not sure I believe this."

  "Somebody," Garvin decided, "is gonna shit five-credit pieces when they hear about this."

  But all they were told by their company commander, Cent Haughton, repeated by Alt Wu, their platoon leader, was to "be more careful when you're outside the camp, and "what the hell were you doing out there anyway?"

  Nobody ever reported seeing the sniper again.

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  Lir looked the five up and down.

  "You call this combat-ready? Your gear looks like you've crapped in it for a week. Fifteen minutes, full dress. Move!"

  The five clattered back into the barracks, cursing steadily as they stacked their rifles, dumped combat vests and equipment, and started pulling on dress blues.

  "I'm gonna kill her," Angie managed. "Kill her dirty and seal my goddamned tunic for me willya, Njangu, thanks."

  "Two minutes left and we're ready," Faull managed. "We're getting good."

  They pelted back out, and froze. Waiting in full dress uniform, were Alt Hedley and Senior Tweg Gonzales.

  "Fall in," Lir shouted. They obeyed, and the dec about-faced, saluted the alt.

  "Sir, the troops are present."

  "Good," Hedley said, taking a piece of paper from his pocket.

  "General order such and such, effective this date, signed personally by Caud Jochim Williams, the following are promoted from RECRUIT to STRIKER: 'Faull, Henry; Milot, Ton; Rada, Angela; Penwyth, Erik; and Yoshitaro, Njangu.'"

  "Congratulations. The bullshit's over with. You made it. All of you. Welcome to Intelligence and Reconnaissance."

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  They were waiting for Garvin Jaansma near the pond by Regimental Headquarters. Dill knocked his legs out from under him, held him pinned, while Gorecki and Kang grabbed his arms. He flailed, but they lugged him to the edge of the water.

  "One . . . three, and yo-heave-ho," and Jaansma splashed down.

  "What the hell was that for?" he sputtered when he surfaced.

  "You ain't a slimy recruit any longer," Stanislaus said. "You is one of us, you poor sad bastard. Plus you now get to get off this stinkin' base and go into Leggett and get into trouble without us."

  Jaansma stood knee-deep in the pond, oblivious to the lily pad dangling from one shoulder.

  "Come on, Striker Jaansma," Dill said. "Stop crying and get your ass back to barracks. The old man wants to do it official-like in an hour."

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  Garvin was sitting on his bunk, dress blue tunic beside him. Once more he reached out, ran his finger across the new red cloth of a striker's single slash.

  "It ain't gonna go away," a voice said. Jaansma looked up, saw Njangu leaning against the bunk behind him. He, too, wore a striker's insignia.

  "Can't believe we made it."

  "I sure as hell can, you candy-assed armored idiot," Yoshitaro said. "But I didn't wander down here where you elite swine swarm just to congratulate you. We got a week pass, y'know."

  "I vaguely remember the cent telling me that," Garvin said. "But I've been a little . . . excited."

  Njangu grinned.

  "Me too. But I paid attention to the important shit. Especially because we got Force Maneuvers when we get back, and that'll be a pure whore on roller skates. You want to try to get in some serious trouble with some I&R rascals?"

  "Why hell yes," Garvin said. "I thought you'd never ask . . . Striker Yoshitaro."

  Chapter 14

  The cave's entrance was tiny, barely a meter high and hidden by a thicket. Ten meters within, it opened into a great chamber in the heart of the mountain. It was cool, a relief from the tropic night outside.

  Twenty men and women sat on blankets in a semicircle, three lanterns casting shadows on the high walls and ceiling. All had weapons, and kept them close at hand.

  Comstock Brien stood in the center of the group.

  "Are we sure, sister, this report is accurate?"

  Jo Poynton shrugged, held out her hands. "My agent has never been in error before. But I will admit he's never reported anything this important."

  "So if it's true, if the Rentiers have lost contact with their overlords in the Confederation," Brien mused, "it is now the task of the Planning Group to determine what advantage w
e shall take of this."

  Jord'n Brooks stood. "Excuse me," he said politely. "My name is Jord'n Brooks. As you know, I'm the newest member of the Planning Group, so forgive me if I don't remember the names you've chosen to use, or if I'm violating protocol in not waiting until more senior members speak."

  "It seems to me this opportunity must be seized immediately! We must begin with a hard strike, an attack that clearly throws down the gauntlet."

  "Such as?" someone asked.

  "I would suggest a direct assault on PlanGov headquarters," he said. "Select a small squad, equip them with explosives, and attack. The men and women will die, naturally, but die as martyrs to the revolution."

  "With proper planning and a bit of luck, they will die in the knowledge that they've taken a goodly percentage of the Confederation satraps with them, including that slug of a governor general, if we strike carefully and at the proper moment."

  "Pah!" Brien snarled. "That's the purest form of adventurism, very close to antirevolutionary wrecking! We must move slowly, in a considered manner."

  "Insults, labels, have no part in a reasoned discussion," Brooks said coldly. "Are your ideas so bereft of intrinsic merit you must instantly attack any contributions from others? Be careful, brother. Such behavior smacks of elitism. We have no intent of fighting against the harsh arbitrary hand of the Confederation and the Rentiers only to have another dictator emerge from within."

  "Brother Brooks, you also must be wary," Poynton said. "You are also coming close to anti-movement behavior in your choice of words."

  "I am sorry," Brooks said. "And thank you for the admonishment. I acknowledge my error, apologize to Brother Brien and withdraw my statement. Of course we must move carefully, and be aware of the possibility of failure, and not sacrifice all on a single cast of the dice. But we must be careful not to be paralyzed with inertia that might be seen as cowardice, either."

  "Since my first idea was received with such scorn by Brother Brien, let me offer an alternative: The Force will hold its annual maneuvers in a few weeks. These maneuvers, here on the main island, have been a popular entertainment for some years, have they not? In fact, isn't it common knowledge that the final battle game is to be witnessed by most of the PlanGov and a goodly number of the Rentiers?"

  "They are, and it is," someone said.

  "Why can't these swine be attacked while they're out in the open, away from their guards, sensors, and fortresses? How heavy will the security be in a time of festival?"

  "Even if it is a play war, we still must worry about the Force, who'll be thronging the area."

  "And able to fight back with what? Blanks? And why do we worry so much about them? They're undermanned, their equipment is aging rapidly, and their morale must be low with this loss of contact with their overlords in the Confederation. Even the stupidest, most bestial soldier at Camp Mahan must be dimly aware of how repressive he is, and how his iron heel smashes the 'Raum."

  "You think more of the average helmet-head than I do," someone called, and there was a ripple of laughter.

  "That is an interesting idea," Poynton said. "I gather you have developed an overall strategy of your own from there?"

  "I have," Brooks said, voice excited. "Hit now, hit hard, hit often. Hit not just PlanGov and the Rentiers, but hit those loathsome vermin the Musth wherever we find them, in Leggett or up on the plateaus where they plot our doom."

  "What could that give us? Their empire doesn't appear to be tottering," a woman asked. "Suppose they strike back? Not just with the soldiers they've got in the Cumbre system, but with a battle force from their homeworlds?'

  "Good," Brooks said. "If they do, they'll hit all men, not just us. That'll mobilize everyone to join together. Since we are the only ones who'll have a plan, that'll give us Cumbre on a platter, then, together, we may destroy the Musth."

  "You think we can defeat the Musth?"

  "Of course," Brooks said scornfully. "We are 'Raum. Is there anyone among you who think the One who created us to rule would allow the Musth any victory? Why would the One contradict his simple message and deny us their worlds, the worlds of the universe He promised us?"

  A moment of silence, then shouts of "no," "of course not," and some smug, satisfied laughter came. Brooks put on a smile, let it linger for a moment, then went on.

  "So we can set aside that impossibility. We hit the Musth, we drive them back into their enclaves, then off D-Cumbre. From there, as the situation develops, we will be in position to attack them on their base world of E-Cumbre, and drive them from the system. With the riches of C-Cumbre ours we can rebuild and continue our triumphant expansion."

  "Again I must remind you about your willingness not only to create empires in the clouds, but attempt to move into them," Brien said. "Return to this world, and what happens after we strike during these maneuvers. No matter how hard we hit them, there'll be enough left of the Force to come after us, into these hills. That will be a brutal campaign, although I, for one, would welcome it, for it fits directly into our already-approved strategy," Brien said with emphasis.

  "In my plan, the Force does come into the hills after our victory," Brooks said. "But we won't be there to be targets."

  "This revolution should . . . must . . . bury itself in the heart of the people. We can sit here in the jungle, and preach to the odd farmer, hunter, or peasant, and our numbers increase, but slowly, agonizingly slowly. And for each convert, we lose two to sickness and one to the Force? I do not like those figures."

  "Other soldiers here in the wilderness are people like me, people who've given the most they can in the city and been forced to flee for their lives."

  "I will be frank. I do not feel I am giving my full effort to the struggle, I do not think my talents are properly used, in these hinterlands. I was born and raised in Leggett, and worked in many jobs before I was forced to become a miner and joined The Movement."

  "I know the cities, and they're jungles more impenetrable than these hills. That is where we should be fighting the oppressor, for the targets are close, and easy to study. When we strike, we strike from such close range he can't use his assault craft, his rockets, his missiles, his strike ships and his artillery."

  "If that is the path we decide to follow, the pressure will be instantly increased. People hear of a patrol being shot at here on the Highland walls, and they yawn. But if an element of the Force is ambushed and wiped out in the heart of Leggett, and people see our power . . . victory is much closer."

  Brien started to say something, but Brooks overrode him.

  "When we have a little power, PlanGov and their thugs will turn up the heat. Checkpoints, forbidden zones, brutality, all the criminal behavior of a tottering regime . . . the people will see at first hand what we've been telling them about the reality of their world."

  "They will hurry to join us, and the Force will panic and further intensify its persecution."

  "It then becomes a feedback cycle, brothers and sisters. Instead of a handful of feverish, wan, emaciated half-forgotten jungle fighters waging a bitter war, the entire population rises in frustrated frenzy, and as they do, become our brothers and sisters."

  "That is the day of real, final victory!"

  Brooks stopped abruptly. There was complete silence in the cavern, and he felt the power build, felt the will of the twenty people strong within him, and someone applauded.

  Brien was on his feet. "Brother Brooks is one of our most inspired agitators," he said. "I think we should admire the power of his rhetoric. However—"

  "Forgive me for interrupting you, brother," Poynton said. "I'm not sure these matters should be fully debated now, for our blood is running hot. I would suggest we table this discussion of Grand Strategy for a time, while we all have a chance coldly to consider it, and discuss it with our cell members."

  "With one exception," she said.

  Brien's lips pursed.

  "I like what Brother Brooks suggested about using the Force's maneuvers aga
inst the system," Poynton went on. "We have been looking for a major action to show our strength."

  "What is the matter with Brother Brooks' idea? We would not be risking that many fighters, we would be striking far from our homes and secret bases, and there would be an excellent chance of doing major damage to our persecutors."

  Silence for a moment, and the members of the group eyed each other, consideringly. A man stood.

  "I agree. Let's hit them now, hit them hard, and then we'll see what happens from there!"

  Another, and then a fourth spoke up.

  "I see," Brien said coldly. "Brother Brooks has come up with a very popular idea. I must admit to reservations, but it may, indeed, be time we took the war home to the enemy. How many favor his plan?"

  Hands went up.

  "There is more than a majority," Brien said. "I must bow to Brother Brooks' eloquence, and make it unanimous. We shall begin planning the details at once."

  "Now, it is very late, and I would suggest we break up this meeting. Some of us have long kilometers to travel and places we must be seen at by dawn."

  As the twenty picked up their gear, Poynton came to Brooks. "There are those who might think this small action might give you a base to build from," she said in a low voice.

  "I suppose so," Brooks said, indifferently. "I care little about that. What I care about is that there can be no real compromise for our struggle. Not now, not ever, not until total victory."

  Chapter 15

  "Balls," drawled Erik Penwyth, staring at the Recreation Center. "Just like the barracks, only painted more colors."

  "And a shittier location," Njangu agreed. "The only thing we look to be close to is the sewer works."

  The Force RC did look like former barracks, clinging to a hillside overlooking Leggett's biggest lubricant dump.

  The five strikers wore undress khakis, short-sleeved shirts and shorts with matching knee socks and black-leather sandals.