The Last Legion

by Chris Bunch

  There was laughter, and Njangu saw evil, anticipatory expressions.

  "Study up on the map," Hedley said, "and start thinking of ways to screw with our noble brothers. The rules won't let us baddies win, of course. But I'd like for the white hats to know they've been meddled with."

  "One other thing, and I'll personally flipping crucify anybody who ever says anything about it. It's a real jungle out there, and there's some folks who don't like soldier girls at all. Each man will carry one magazine of real rounds in his backpack, just in case. If by any chance those real poppers get confused with the blanks you'll be issued, all the gods had better have mercy on your ass, for I'll have none. And if anybody gets hit, I'll have you prosecuted for murder, and deny anybody in I&R ever saw a real round except on the range. That's all. Noncoms, take charge of your sections . . . dismissed."

  Hedley started toward the orderly room.

  "Sir?" Kipchak called.

  "What do you need, Petr?"

  "A few minutes alone," Kipchak said. "Striker Yoshitaro's got something you might be interested in."

  "In with the both of you."

  "Njangu," Petr said. "Go get the stuff."

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  The "stuff" was the two coms, sap, knockout gun, and the ID cards Garvin had taken from his attackers. Garvin had told Njangu what'd happened, asked for suggestions. Should he call the police? Njangu, as expected, had sneered. Should he report it to his CO? Njangu asked Jaansma what he thought of the woman. Garvin hadn't much contact with Cent Haughton, but if the company first shirt, Malagash, was any indication, he wouldn't expect much. Njangu said he could turn it over to his CO, Hedley, who seemed to have intelligence both upper and lower case and see what happened.

  "'Kay," Garvin said. "But try to keep me out of it."

  "Why're you so touchy? You were just a handsome lad, attending a party in the Heights, and got skulked on."

  "Caud Williams said he didn't want to see my loverly face ever ever ever again," Garvin said. "I'm following orders."

  "You worry too much," Njangu said. "'Kay. I'll prob'ly have to tell Hedley who the poor sinned-against fool was, but I'll ask him to keep it QT."

  Hedley examined one of the coms. "Nice, new . . . and it's a mate to the other one," he said. "Why would a common thief be carrying one of these, especially fitted with a scrambler? He'd dump it to a fence for his night's buzz. Plus a knockout-type shooter," he went on, picking up the gun. "Your friend's friends were nonviolent . . . or else they wanted a live body."

  "That's what I was wondering, sir," Yoshitaro said.

  "These two ID cards," Hedley said. "They're 'Raum."

  "How do you know, sir?" Kipchak asked.

  "The Rentiers pushed a measure through their Council and then PlanGov about seven years ago that all 'Raum have a Y prefix on their ID numbers. Any notion that those gentle souls might be a leetle bigoted is a definite slander, ho-ho," Hedley explained. "But why would the 'Raum, even the baddies in the boonies, want some rear-rank striker for a prisoner? I think you'd better tell me about your friend."

  Njangu obeyed.

  "Why didn't he call the cops? Most soldiers who get mugged holler in that general direction," Hedley asked.

  "He sort of thinks like I do, sir," Njangu answered honestly. "Police haven't been our friends for a whole lot of our lives."

  "Mmmh," Hedley mused. "And he wants to stay clean now. 'Kay, I'll do what I flipping can. I'm going to take this little story up to some people I trust in II Section, and also some folks in Policy and Analysis. That's the Planetary Police Intelligence, and they're almost half as good as they think they are. Ought to be, since they've had two hundred flipping years to get organized. You two can go back to work. Thanks for reporting this—it won't get pigeonholed, whatever the blazes a goddamned pigeon is."

  "A request, sir," Njangu said. "I'd like to tell my friend what you said. And you said something about needing volunteers with ACVs."

  "Your friend's on a Grierson?"

  "He is. Third Platoon, A Company, Second Infantry. A gunner, sir."

  The lanky alt hesitated.

  "His TC's a big bastard named Ben Dill," Petr said.

  "I know him . . . know of him anyway," Hedley said. "Bad attitude. Violent sort. About the size of a Zhukov. If he wasn't prejudiced against walking, he'd make a great I&R noncom. Good. Go get Dill's pickles for us. We can always use another asshole."

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  Striker Garvin Jaansma bounced into A Company's orderly room, stripped his fatigue cap off, and stood attention, dripping a bit of transmission oil on the freshly waxed floor. There was no one in the orderly room except the company clerk, a snotty little man named Calmahoy. "The CO wants to see you," he said.

  "That's what Tweg Ric told me," Garvin said.

  "She's in her office. Knock first."

  Garvin marched across the room, counting his sins, and rapped in a businesslike manner.

  "Come in."

  It wasn't true that Cent Dian Haughton ironed military creases in her brassiere every night, but it should've been. She was all army, from her closely cropped hair to her perfect posture to her immaculate uniform.

  Nobody knew how good or bad an officer she was, for in the three months she'd been in charge of A Company she ran things through her efficient bully of a first tweg, Malagash. Garvin threw her his best salute, stood at rigid attention, suddenly aware of the microcalipers and circuit reader sticking out of his coverall pocket.

  "At ease," Haughton said. "You know what the company policy is for taking personal coms during work hours?"

  "Yes'm," Garvin said. "You don't."

  "And your friends aren't supposed to call, either."

  "No ma'am," he agreed.

  She handed him two pink message slips. "Read them."

  Garvin wondered who might've . . . and then his eyebrows crawled toward the ceiling. The first was from a "Jasith Mellusin," the second from a Loy Kouro.

  "Your business is your business," Haughton said. "But if I might, I'd like to ask a couple of questions."

  "Yes ma'am."

  "Is this Mellusin any relation to the mining family?"

  "Yes ma'am."

  "Hmmph. And therefore this Loy Kouro's connected to the holo Afariw?"

  "He is."

  "Friends of yours?"

  "One . . . I hope is," Garvin said. "I think the other's more of an enemy."

  "For a brand-new striker," Haughton said, "you certainly travel in interesting circles."

  "Do you think so, ma'am?" Garvin's voice was neutral, his expression bland. Haughton waited until she realized Jaansma wasn't going to elaborate. She grunted.

  "Very well. You have my permission to return the calls now. Use the executive officer's office. The blue com goes directly off camp, so you'll have privacy."

  "Thank you, ma'am."

  Haughton looked him up and down. "I'll be very interested in your progress, Striker. Dismissed."

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  "This is Jasith," the throaty whisper came.

  "This is Garvin Jaansma. I'm the—"

  "Soldier," she interrupted. "I hadn't had hardly anything to sniff or drink, so I remember everything."

  "I guess I owe you an apology," Garvin started.

  "No," Jasith said. "I called to tell you I was sorry. I'd had a fight with Daddy before I came, about how I was lazy and not willing to work and not worthy of being a Mellusin, and I was just in a perfectly foul mood, and trying to pretend I wasn't."

  "So when you and Loy started fighting, I'm afraid it struck me wrong, and I just made an ass of myself. I'm sorry, Garvin."

  "No," Garvin said. "I'm sorry. I should've learned to control my big mouth and my temper by now."

  "And things were going . . . just so nicely," Jasith whispered. "I remember your kisses."

  "I remember some other things."

&nbs
p; "Like a big bed of flower petals?"

  Garvin found himself breathing a little hard. "Something like that."

  "If you let me . . . if you want . . . maybe there'll be a next time sometime."

  "I'd like that," Garvin said.

  "I know you've got those stupid war games in four days," Jasith said. "Daddy and everybody else are going to go watch their end, up on Mount Najim. After they get finished, will they give you a leave?"

  "Probably."

  "You have my number," she said. "I'll keep my com with me everywhere. Please call me."

  "I promise."

  He heard a smack—a kiss?—and the line went dead.

  "I shall be dipped," Garvin said in some astonishment, and dialed the second number.

  "Matin publisher's office," a female voice cooed. "How may I assist you?"

  "This is Striker Garvin Jaansma, A Company, Second Infantry Regiment, Strike Force Swift Lance, returning Loy Kouro's com."

  "Please stand by."

  A moment later: "This is Loy Kouro. I called to apologize for starting a fight with you at Bampur's party the other night."

  I'll be dipped and dunked, Garvin thought. "That's all right," he said amiably. "It wasn't much of a fight."

  The voice became a trifle frosty. "I hope I didn't injure you or anything."

  "Nope," Garvin said. "You missed clean, then decided to go swimming."

  "Perhaps the next time we meet," Kouro said after a moment, "you'll allow me to buy you a drink."

  "'Fraid not," Garvin said cheerily. "I only drink with my equals."

  There was a hiss of anger, then the line went dead. Garvin turned the com off, went out. Cent Haughton was standing over Calmahoy's desk, pretending to read a sheaf of orders.

  "Thank you, ma'am," Garvin said. "I appreciate the favor."

  Haughton looked at him closely. Jaansma had spoken as if she were his equal. She wondered for an instant if perhaps he was, then just who Jaansma really was. He went to the door, put his cap on, and left.

  Haughton stared after him, then saw something: "Calmahoy, look at that oil! This is an orderly room, not a hogwallow! Get a mop and clean that up!"

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  "So my fame travels," Ben Dill said. "An asshole, hmm?"

  "That's what Alt Hedley said to tell you," Njangu said, glancing surreptitiously around for something large and heavy to lay Dill out with when he exploded. The only thing suitable was the Grierson the dec was standing next to. Yoshitaro decided on flight. Instead, the huge man bellowed laughter.

  "Asshole Ben, eh? 'Kay, that's what it is." He beat on the Grierson's armor with a fist. "Unass the sardine can, folks. We're gonna have a small discussion about volunteering before we go and do something stupid like volunteering."

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  "A question," Garvin asked Dill, as they carefully reassembled one of the Grierson's chainguns.

  "Ask and ye shall receive," Ben said.

  "I&R is the ground-pounding scouts, right? And Mobile Scout Troop does the same thing, but with vehicles."

  "Veddy basic."

  "Howcum I&R plays bad guy, and MST sticks with the main force? Wouldn't it be more like what'd actually happen for anybody we'd fight, other than bandits, to have a real air capability?"

  "Excellent question," Dill said. "First, the guy who plays aggressor in any war game shouldn't be very good, because if he does something outrageous like beat the butt of his CO, guess what'll happen come promotion time? Alt Hedley of I&R doesn't give a shit about making rank by kissing ass, so he thinks it's a hoot to be the bad guy. Cent Liskeard, of Mobile, does . . . and you notice he outranks Hedley, even though both job slots call for a cent.

  "You also notice nobody talks about real fighting, like going after the 'Raum in the hills, because nobody outside Hedley and some other blood drinkers want to dirty their hands shooting at folks who might be women, children, and general back-stabbers who look like everybody else."

  "Smart folks . . . that is, those who're careerists on the brown highway, don't think playing aggressor is a treat either. That's why the two companies that're helping I&R were ordered, not volunteered. You don't think their canny COs went and stuck their paw in the garbage grinder of their own accord, now do you? See why you never want to be an ossifer an' gruntleman, young Garvin?"

  Chapter 18

  Twenty men and women were lined up in the clearing. Jord'n Brooks stood in front of them, and, to one side was Jo Poynton and Comstock Brien. "I greet you, brothers and sisters," he said, "warriors all, and am proud of you for volunteering for this vital mission the Planning Group has honored me to lead. One day, when we 'Raum seize D-Cumbre and reach for the system and then the stars, people will look back and say, 'Here was when it began. Here were the heroes who began the freeing of our race, our people, our culture.'"

  His voice rose.

  "This is the beginning of the end for our enemies, the Rentiers, and for all those in the Universe who doubt our truth."

  "Take up the packs and weapons you see in front of you. There are instructions inside. Read them, memorize them, and then we shall begin rehearsing for action. Our Task will be a shining torch in the eyes of men and women everywhere, a torch for freedom and liberty."

  The twenty cheered. Brooks stood very straight, eyes half-closed, listening.

  Chapter 19

  Chance Island rumbled as Swift Lance lifted away from its base, climbing out toward the mouth of the bay. Five kilometers above the ocean, the Force moved into a massive swirling formation, hundreds of Zhukovs, Griersons, Cookes, almost seven thousand men. There were errors—a dozen near collisions, half a dozen real ones. But casualties were light and most of the shattered ACVs were able to land under their own power or emergency antigrav. A handful of crewmen took to their personal droppers. Three of these malfunctioned, and two other troops who'd managed to avoid mandatory swimming lessons drowned in the bay. Then the Force went back to sea level and accelerated to a safety-conscious 200 km/h for the assault. Simulated AA missiles took out thirty-two of the ACVs as the Force approached land, then the equally simulated missiles of the Zhukovs and air-support Griersons suppressed the missiles, and Strike Force Swift Lance closed on the Landing Zone, just as the monsoon rains rolled across Dharma Island.

  The assault was considered very successful by Caud Williams, who disregarded his maneuver losses, saying they were meaningless, and only due to the low speed dictated by circumstances. He also paid no mind to the nine percent of his assault craft who'd either aborted at Camp Mahan or at lift; as well as the nearly one thousand men and women of the Force with "other duties" that kept them out of the games.

  The Aggressors, unimaginatively named Blue Force, had been out for twenty-four hours already. The two companies of Third Regiment anticipated the worst, and had been ready to spend the day digging and blasting out fighting positions. But the trenches and bunkers of four years earlier were still in decent shape, and all that was necessary was a little sandbagging here and there and rousting out the wildlife that'd colonized the sites.

  "Just like camping when I was a kid," one soldier said.

  "Mebbe," one said, hefting her weapon. "But at least back then I had rubber-band guns to fight back with. A real weapon! A woman's weapon! Not this poppity-poppity-poppity goddamned Mark 21!"

  "Shaddup and load yer blanks," her teammate said.

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  The Strike Force Shrike battery hovered along a dirt road, movement hopefully concealed by tall overhead trees. The battery commander kept checking his SatPos, which insisted on telling him there was a turn just beyond his present position that'd let him swing north, find an open meadow, and prepare his missiles for "firing" in support of the Swift Lance attack. The cent's SatBox had been promising this turn for about two kilometers.

  The road was mucky and getting worse as the rain drenched the Griersons, and t
he trees were close on either side of the column. He knew he was close to the Blue lines, but without Zhukov support dared not pop up above the trees and get a "real-world" position by eyeball.

  He grunted relief as they rounded a bend and saw the promised fork.

  Better yet, there was a grounded Cooke with Military Police stripes, and a smartly uniformed dec standing next to it.

  "Set it down," he ordered, "we need a fix," and his driver obeyed. The cent slid his hatch open, and the dec saluted.

  "I think I'm a little misplaced," the cent confessed.

  "That's why they've got me out here," the dec said. "The map's pi skewey, and you'll want to take the fork on the left."

  "Good," the cent said in relief. "My Box was telling me entirely different."

  "That's why we're here," the dec said. The cent closed his hatch, glad to be out of the rain, and gave orders. The battery lifted, went slowly down the narrowing track.

  Dec Monique Lir grinned wolfishly, jumped into the Cooke.

  "Hook it on out of here," she ordered. She keyed her com. "Vara Seven, this is Sibyl Beta. Fire Mission."

  "This is Vara. Go."

  "This is Beta. Battery of Shrikes, from Marten up one, left two, target moving north, rate of movement approximately four kph."

  "This is Vara. We have indicators enough to fire. Shall we launch?"

  "This is Beta. Negative. In about . . . oh, fifteen minutes them li'l suckers'll run out of road and pop up right in front of you, and you can blast 'em over open sights. Reverting fire control to you. Have fun. This is Beta, clear." She turned to her driver. "Let's go find a hilltop and watch the fireworks."

  Fifteen minutes later, the track petered out into the trees, and the cursing cent ordered his vehicles up into open air. They'd reset their course after getting a decent bearing.

  "Fire," the alt in charge of the Blue missile detachment five kilometers away ordered, then turned to an umpire. "I call four dead Shrike Griersons."