The Last Legion: Book One of the Last Legion Series

by Chris Bunch

  “My father taught me to make up my own mind from whatever facts I could come up with. Maybe good, maybe bad, but that’s the way I was taught, and that’s why I started having trouble.”

  “ ’Kay,” Njangu said slowly, “I understand the programming. But do the sohs tell the ’Raum they’ve got to live separately, like I gather they do?”

  “If you’re a ’Raum,” Faull said, some bitterness in his voice, “everybody knows it. Knows it by your name, by your address, by where you went to school.”

  “With no way out?”

  “Except maybe the Force.”

  “Which is what you’re doing?”

  “Which is what I’m trying,” Faull said. “At least you offworlders don’t seem to give a rat’s nose about shit like that.”

  “If you’d stayed a ’Raum,” Njangu asked, “you would’ve had to become a miner?”

  “Actually, there’s a ton of us who never pick the pick,” Faull said. “We’re merchants, traders … a lot of us are fishermen or live outside the cities, small-farming.

  “I’m missing something,” Njangu said. “If you’ve got all those options, why’d you go soldiering?”

  “Those options are bullshit,” Faull said sharply. “You can trade … to other ’Raum. Farm … but you better not get too big. Open a store … but it better not compete with the Anciens and their crew.”

  “That,” Njangu said, “sort of blows corpses.”

  Faull nodded, turned back to his gear.”

  “That’s the system the Force is defending?”

  Faull nodded again.

  “One other question. Everybody calls the rich types Rentiers. What’s that mean? Or was that the name of their ship, or something?”

  “That was something I had to look up for myself,” Faull said. “It’s an old Earth word for rich people who get richer by making everybody dance around their money piles.”

  “Shit. So much for Truth, Justice, and the Confederation Way,” Njangu said. “It’s the same here as anywhere else. We got the Golden Rule — whoever’s got the gold, rules.”

  • • •

  Gorecki was teaching Jaansma how to pilot a Cooke. “It’s bone-simple,” he finished. “Now let’s take it out for a field test.”

  “Good,” Jaansma said. “Like where?”

  “Off post, maybe around the island,” the driver said.

  “Even better,” Garvin said, and climbed into the driver’s seat.

  The drive was already on. Jaansma fastened his safety straps as Stanislaus clambered in. He eyed the empty gunmount in front of him. “If we had some ammo, I’d chance doing a little cross-country,” he said. “But I guess — ”

  “Hoy,” someone shouted, and Garvin saw Ben Dill trotting toward them. Over his shoulder was a belt, and holstered on it was the biggest handgun Jaansma’d ever seen. “You two clowns thinking about going for a ride without me?”

  “Never happen, Dec.”

  “Good,” Dill said, vaulting into the passenger compartment. “Let’s get out of here before somebody finds work for us to do.”

  “I was gonna have him do a circumnav,” Gorecki said.

  “Sounds good to me,” Dill said. “Let’s go beachcombing. Take it away, Mister Jaansma.”

  “Immediately, Mister Dill,” and Garvin pushed the drive pedal, and pulled the upside-down U of the control stick toward him. The Cooke hiccuped, then soared away.

  “Didn’t like that sound,” Dill said.

  “If you don’t like failure,” Gorecki said, “don’t hook with a Cooke.”

  “Funny,” Dill said. “I’m choking with hysterics. Take it low and fast, Garvin. I want to eat some spray.”

  “Happy to oblige,” Garvin said, and dived toward the water.

  • • •

  “Come on children,” Lir shouted, “or we’ll be late for our morning prayers.”

  Njangu wanted to curse, but was too out of breath. He thought he heard Gerd wheeze something obscene, but it was probably wishful thinking. Lir seemed determined to make sure none of them survived training, and had started taking the recruits for daily two-kilometer beach runs, with a five-klicker every third day.

  “Most important muscle a good rifleman’s got is his legs,” she observed cheerfully, easily running backward along the water’s edge.

  “Wrong,” Angie Rada managed. “It’s what’s between them that’s important.”

  “You got enough breath for talking,” Lir called, “sing something.”

  “Aw shit,” Rada moaned, but obeyed:

  “Oh once I was happy, but now I’m forlorn,

  Riding in Griersons all tattered and torn

  The drivers are daring, all caution they scorn,

  And the pay is exactly the same, the same,

  The pay is exactly the same.

  “We glide through the air in our flying caboose,

  Its actions are graceful just like a fat goose,

  We hike on the pavement till our joints all come loose,

  And the pay is exactly — ”

  She broke off, hearing the whine of an approaching vehicle.

  “Straighten up, you hounds,” Lir shouted. “It’s liable to be your mother!”

  The five closed into tight formation, and a Cooke flashed around the point ahead. As it closed, the vehicle slowed. Njangu wondered who’d be this far from Camp Mahan. Probably some officer with his popsy, he thought wistfully, trying to remember the last time he’d made love to anything other than his hand, and wondered why he’d never tried to see if Angie was serious.

  He squinted at the Cooke, saw three men in it. The man in the back stood, and Yoshitaro blinked at how goddamned big the bastard was. The man wore the four rank slashes of a dec. He threw an elaborate salute, and shouted, “Hyp, heep, hoop, there, brave soldiers! Give us a cheer for the Force!”

  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 willy a, 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 we 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 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 antimovement 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 cowardi
ce, 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.”