The Last Legion

by Chris Bunch

  The two fenced for an instant, then Njangu reversed his grip on the blade, jumped to the side and smashed a fist into the man's neck, snapped his hand back, swinging the blade out and ripping the man's face open. The man stumbled sideways, blade whipping back and forth, keeping Njangu off.

  Njangu waved his knife flashily, the man's eyes flickered to it, and Njangu stamp-kicked the man's instep. The man grunted, lunged at Njangu, who sidestepped, and slashed the man's wrist open. Blood sprayed, and the man gasped, clutched his fountaining wound. Njangu kicked him very hard in the solar plexus. His attacker gagged, folded, went flat.

  "I hate being right sometimes," he said. Limnea was running hard down the beach. He went after her, caught up with her in a dozen meters, knocked her sprawling. She rolled over, looked up at him. He still held the knife.

  "How did you know?"

  "That you weren't just interested in my fair white young body? Easy," Njangu said. "The only time a soldier walks in a bar and the prettiest girl spots him and has to jump his bones is in the holos. Mostly we end up paying for it, or with a skunk, or pounding our puds after the money's been spent buying some who-gives-a-shit honey champagne cocktails. Plus you were a little obvious."

  "Don't kill me," she said. "Please."

  "Why not? You would've let your two goons kill me," Yoshitaro said reasonably. "Now answer my question. You're 'Raum?"

  Limnea nodded jerkily.

  "Were you and your friends interested in robbery? Or just a dead Forceman?"

  Limnea didn't answer.

  "I'll guess the last, you debonair revolutionary you. So now the question becomes, what should I do now? Scream shrilly in the key of C for a cop?" Limnea's eyes were wide in fear. "I've heard rumors the noble Policy and Analysis policemen have some interesting interrogation techniques with 'Raum suspects," he said. "Particularly female ones."

  "Please," Limnea whispered.

  "Please my left testicle," Njangu said. "You wouldn't have shown me any mercy, now would you?"

  "They might not have killed you," she said.

  "Yeh. And I'm the Queen of Sheba." He looked around. "Get up."

  She obeyed, eyes fixed on him, and on the knife.

  "See those rocks over there? Go on over."

  She obeyed.

  "Very well," he said. "Negotiations can begin. It's either the cops, or . . . ? Remembering that a good revolutionary always knows how to think on her knees."

  Very slowly, she slid the suspenders from her shoulders, let them fall to the side. She undid a fastening, and her pants pooled about her feet.

  She wore only matching briefs, pulled them down and was naked.

  "An excellent start. Now, come here."

  She came toward him. Her breath was coming faster, and her lips were slightly parted.

  "When we were interrupted so rudely, you were doing something with your tongue," he said.

  Limnea kissed him, and her hands fumbled with his belt, his trousers snaps. She pulled her lips from his. "We have a saying," she said. "The one who completes his Task is rewarded."

  "Or, to the victor belong the spoils," Njangu said. He looked at the knife in his hand, sent it spinning, a silver circle splashing into the water. He began unfastening his shirt.

  "No," she said. "When you do it to me, I want to feel your medals, want them to dig into me. But first, I must be on my knees, as you ordered me."

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  The 'Raum hit post offices in half a dozen cities across D-Cumbre, including two in Leggett. The raiders knew just what they wanted, exploding safes for the credits inside, and all official correspondence for its intelligence values. There were only two 'Raum casualties, both minor, and they were gone with the other raiders by the time police units arrived.

  PlanGov responded by suspending habeas corpus—suspects could be held, without trial, for as long as two months. Special internment centers were set up on outer islands and were quickly filled.

  Governor General Haemer announced a new identity card would be issued to all 'Raum. After a certain date, anyone without a card or with the old identification was subject to immediate arrest. This would force the men and women of The Movement into the open. Or so was the theory.

  The Rentiers' Council voted to levy a two-million-credit fine on the entire 'Raum community, for sheltering criminals and dissidents and failing to support the properly constituted government, but Governor Haemer vetoed the measure.

  The men and women of the Heights muttered angrily—the Confederation, or what was left of it, clearly was soft, spineless. Firm measures needed to be taken at once.

  Policemen patrolled in at least pairs, frequently more, and wore combat vests, ballistic armor, and many carried mil-issue blasters.

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  There were three of them at the door of the shabby tenth-floor apartment. The odor of cooking, too many bodies, sweat, and grease hung heavy around them. Two paid no mind—they were 'Raum of the cities and had grown up in the stink. The third, who'd come in from a farm as The Movement ordered, fought nausea.

  The woman who opened the door had a baby on her hip, and two little girls clamored behind her. They saw the guns, shrank back.

  "Sister, we come from The Movement," the man said. "There's nothing to fear. We are here to collect your identity card, and the cards of your household."

  "But . . . what will we do without them?"

  "Nothing will happen," the man said. "Every 'Raum has been ordered to do this."

  "Oh," the woman said. "So if no one has a card . . ."

  "Exactly," the man said. "We all stand . . . or die . . . together. You understand our struggle better than most."

  "I'll get ours," the woman said. "Be sure and knock hard next door. The old woman there is very deaf."

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  "There is great concern on our homeworldsss," System-Leader Aesc told Governor Haemer, "about your ability to maintain peace in thisss sssystem since contact with your Confederation has been lossst."

  "You know about that?" Haemer said, undiplomatically. The holo image of Aesc and Wiencing shifted slightly, firmed as the transmission beam relocked.

  "Of courssse," Aesc said. "You ssshould be aware that there are variousss factionsss, I believe isss the word, in our Empire, and their desssired policiesss are not necesssssarily the onesss currently in effect."

  "The Ssssytem-Leader meansss," War Leader Wiencing interrupted, "there are thossse in the homeworldsss who would like to intervene here in the Cumbre system, and gift you with what might be called a caretaker government. At leassst until your Confederation returnsss, at which time proper gratitude can be expresssed."

  Haemer could not detect any human emotion such as maliciousness or irony. He noticed Aesc look swiftly at his war leader, then away. "I am sorry," he said, "but I am getting mixed signals. Don't you Musth share a common viewpoint?"

  Wiencing started to say something, but Aesc interrupted. "Our waysss are not that unlike yoursss," he said. "We rule by consensssus of all."

  "But sometimesss," Wiencing put in, "the common agreement changesss when a new reality presssents itssself."

  "Is that happening now?"

  Wiencing and Aesc exchanged looks, didn't answer.

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  "Great God, what a mess," Loy Kouro exclaimed.

  "Isn't it just," Police Major Gothian agreed. "We figure there's at least a million ID cards all melted together. Probably more. I guess every goddamned 'Raum on D-Cumbre had a gun put to his head, and the P&A Team on C-Cumbre says the miners there did the same thing."

  Kouro walked around the pile of melted plas in front of the police station. "No one saw them dump it off?"

  "No one's admitted to it yet," Gothian said. "We're still interrogating the night shift and the neighbors."

  "Why'd they do something absurd like this?"r />
  Gothian started to snap something, stopped. No matter how thick, a publisher's son was treated gently. "If none of the 'Raum have identity cards," Gothian explained, "then our identity checks are useless."

  "Oh," Kouro said. "Diabolical. Truly diabolical. What will be your countermeasures?"

  Gothian hesitated, unwilling to admit that no one had devised one yet.

  "My Policy and Analysis team is studying the matter right now, and a decision will be imminent," he said.

  "Good. Very good. We've got to nip these bandits in the bud," Kouro said ineptly. "You may rest assured that nothing of this matter will be reported in Matin."

  "That's exactly why I asked you to drop by," Gothian said. "That, and to see if I might buy you a meal."

  "Never averse to that," Kouro said. "But I think it would be more appropriate for me to stand treat. You, after all, are in the front lines of the struggle, and should be honored as best I can."

  Gothian blinked, unwilling to believe anyone actually talked like that, then smiled acceptance.

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  "Hey, Yoshitaro! Don't you ever pick up your friggin' mail?" the I&R Company clerk asked.

  Njangu braked in considerable amazement. "Nope," he said. "Nobody ever writes me. I'm awwl aaa-lone in the world."

  "Write, flight, spite. Somebody sent you a package."

  "Oh yeh? From where?"

  "Now do I have time to read the return addresses of every piece of mail?" the clerk asked. "Of course not . . . just the ones that smell pretty or have dirty suggestions on the disc cover. C'mon, troop. Get your goodies."

  "'Kay," Njangu said. "You know anybody at II Section who's got an X-ray machine?"

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  "Well dip me in chocolate and call me turd," Kipchak said, examining the pistol closely. It was a mankiller, a variable-aperture blaster of cold gray alloy, as deadly as it looked. "Who's your unknown admirer?"

  "Damfino," Njangu said. "There was nothing in the package, other than a piece of paper with a com number."

  Kipchak looked at the pistol even more closely.

  "I think I got some advice for you," he said.

  "Already taken," Njangu said. "After II Section X-rayed the box and didn't find anything boomish in it, I had the armorer take the piece apart looking for fiendish thingies inside. Nothing. He said it was a perfectly standard Marley. About four hundred credits on the open market. Then we took it out to the range, bolted it up in a vise, and ran a string to the trigger. Shoots like a sumbeech," he said. "Dead nuts on."

  Kipchak turned the weapon over and over. "You try the com number?"

  "Not yet. But I'm sure thinking about it. Maybe this is a new way to get in my shorts."

  The door to Njangu's room banged open, and Garvin bounced in. "Hey, look what somebody sent me!" He held up a pistol identical to Njangu's.

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  Over the next week, about fifty Force soldiers got packages, of various shapes and configurations. All contained identical pistols, and the same com number. Some recipients were in I&R Company, including Petr Kipchak.

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  "'Kay," Hedley said, "so that's it with these flipping popguns? You're the big-time Intelligence analyst."

  "To reassure you that your view of me as a potential messiah is accurate," Cent Angara said, "I do, in fact, have an explanation. They're bait."

  "What sort of flipping bait?"

  "The people who got them," Angara said, "are either recent enlistees or people who've had a bit of trouble adjusting to military life. Some have been in the motivational platoon, two or three in the brig for various offenses. Quite a few of your I&R people, by the way. All good field soldiers, though."

  "What happens," Hedley asked, "when they dial that flipping com number?"

  "I don't know," Angara said. "There's somebody e-monitoring, and they're fairly good, because I haven't been able to get a response other than a synthed voice that says 'Go ahead, I'm listening.' Evidently I'm not saying the right things, nor is anybody I've conned into punching up the number. I had Planetary Police's Policy and Analysis techs check the line quietly, and the goddamned thing's got about six bounces, so nobody knows where the base station really is, and if we dig any harder, it'll most likely self-destruct. But I can tell you what happens when somebody does say whatever the monitoring wants to hear. Eight of the people who got pistols have deserted."

  "Deserted? Not just gone on a spree?" Hedley asked.

  "Vanished clean. The MPs tracked two of them to the 'rail station. A ticket clerk said he saw a good-looking soldier open a locker and take out a package. She went into the women's 'fresher, and came out in civvies."

  "Oh flipping really?"

  "Yeh," Angara said. "He remembered which bank the locker was in, so we grabbed a couple of P&A types, and quite illegally opened all of the lockers. One had a rolled-up uniform in it that had been issued to Striker Mol Trengue, who is currently carried on the books as absent over leave. I looked at her holo on the roster. Real pretty. Sniper rated, too."

  "Pretty good sign," Hedley said, "that somebody doesn't plan on coming back when they leave the monkey suit behind. So somebody's collecting flipping deserters?"

  "Looks like."

  "Who?"

  "Dunno."

  "Why?"

  "Dunno that either."

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  The four old women had worked together, cleaning offices in Leggett's business district for years. They'd gone to each other's weddings, birth ceremonies, manhood rituals, Task-divinings, taken care of each other's children and grandchildren. They lived within a block of each other in the Eckmuhl, and walked the three kilometers to and from work together each day. Their chatter stopped for a moment as a police lifter cruised past—like the other 'Raum in their district, they'd obediently surrendered their cards when The Movement ordered. The lifter passed, and they talked on, of this and that.

  A battered lighter, cargo space covered by a canvas tarp lifted out of a narrow street and came after the women. One noticed the lighter, creeping slowly after them, was about to say something when the canvas fell away. Two men, one woman stood there, wearing dark clothing and hoods, and holding military Squad Support Weapons with drum magazines.

  The woman started to scream, but it was too late as the blasters shattered the early-morning quiet. Bodies were smashed against the office wall next to them, blood spattering in a grotesque spray. The lighter lifted nearly straight up, against traffic regulations, banked over a rooftop, and disappeared, leaving a scattering of leaflets in its wake.

  They were all the same:

  'RAUM!

  The People of Cumbre

  Have Taken Enough

  You Have Nurtured The Serpents

  At Your Breast Long Enough.

  Now Is The Time of Change

  Reject Their Tyranny

  Help Us Destroy Them

  Or

  We Will Destroy You

  The Committee for Peace

  Eleven more 'Raum, none with any known involvement with The Movement, were slaughtered that day, and the same leaflets scattered over their bodies.

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  The people of Leggett, known for dark humor, dubbed the killers of the Committee "beards." If questioned why beards, the answer was because none of the assassins appeared to have them. It was the best . . . and only joke as the dry season ground on, and the killings continued. Some 'Raum quit their jobs and huddled in the Eckmuhl or other 'Raum ghettos across the planet. Others had their jobs terminated, for no citizen of D-Cumbre wanted to chance being in a crossfire if someone came for "their" 'Raum.

  Police seemed unable to arrest any of the beards, or find any leads to the mysterious organization and its leaders.

  ———«»—�
��—«»———«»———

  Now D-Cumbre's cities flashed with violence. Not only Leggett, but Aire, Seya, Taman City, Launceston, Kerrier saw robberies, assassinations, intimidation of officials. Caud Williams broke the always-unlucky Fourth Regiment into independent companies, each to a city, generally barracked in the main police compounds. But there were never enough soldiers—the Force, badly undermanned, now was spread thin. Williams privately thought too thin.

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  The five men came through the door with a rush, guns leveled. Jasith's store manager boss squeaked and fainted. "No one moves," the leader said.

  Jasith held up her hands, and the other three clerks followed her lead.

  She took a slow step sideways, and two guns were aimed at her.

  "Don't even think about that alarm," the first man warned. "The one that's about two steps to your left." Jasith froze. "We know where all six of the alarms are," he continued. "Touch one, and you'll die. All we want is the cashbox . . . and which of you is Jasith Mellusin?"

  Jasith licked suddenly dry lips. "I . . . I am," she said reluctantly.

  "You're coming with us for a while," the man said. "You'll be assisting The Movement. Your father'll pay—" Very suddenly his head exploded, and he pin-wheeled, falling, his finger clenched on the trigger, and bolts shattered mannequins, dressing-room mirrors. Jasith's bodyguard, standing in the doorway to the break room, swung his pistol toward another 'Raum, was gunned down. The bodyguard's teammate pushed over his partner's body, was killed before he could level his pistol.

  Jasith went flat. She heard shouts, more shots. She noticed an earring she'd thought lost a week earlier on the floor about a centimeter from her nose. "Break off!" she heard someone shout. "Away from here!"

  A police lifter cruising the boulevard heard the shots, and its two cops jumped out, one keying the automatic DISTRESS code. The four 'Raum ran out of the lingerie shop, and the cops saw them. One fired, missing, and was shot down. The other officer knelt, and fired back. The 'Raum dashed down the street, shooting wildly at anything or anyone that moved. A boy about ten, a 'Raum window cleaner, ran out of a doorway and was killed.