The Last Legion: Book One of the Last Legion Series

by Chris Bunch

“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 200km/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 th
e 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 fourkph.”

  “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.”

  “Agreed,” the woman said. “You wiped ‘em out clean.” She opened her com. “Maneuver control, I have Swift Lance casualties to report.”

  • • •

  The Griersons came across the Landing Zone in open vees, Zhukovs giving simulated fire in support. Rear ramps dropped, and infantrymen doubled out, went into assault formation, charged the Blue lines. On schedule, the “enemy” was forced out of his prepared positions, falling back into the foothills toward Mount Najim.

  “You know,” one finf advised a new striker, “if you just holler ‘bang,’ and don’t fire your blanks, your piece’ll be easier to clean when the bullshit’s over.”

  • • •

  The mess line clanked forward in the rain toward the line of cooks.

  “Whaddawe got?” a private asked.

  “Good stuff,” a finf said enthusiastically. “Real scrambled eggs; some kind of sausage, least I think that’s what it is; toasted seed-bread; fruit; tea.”

  “Any of it hot?”

  “Most,” the finf said. “Well, some of it. Tepid, anyway, which is better’n basic rats, isn’t it?”

  “Yum, yum, frigging yum. Just what I need,” the striker said, “to turn me into a Stupor Soldier, ready to beat the antlers off that nasty ol’ Blue Army.”

  “You suckin’ for promotion or something?” another striker asked suspiciously.

  “Not me. I’m just wild wit’ enthusiasm.”

  “Would you rather be back in barracks polishing shit?”

  “Hmm,” the first striker said. “Can’t say as I ever polished that … about the only thing I haven’t. But you’re right, it’s nice to be out in the open air, breathing pure water and smelling dirty feet and drive exhausts. I’m a-ready to kill!”

  “Who?”

  “Dunno,” the striker said, “and it don’t matter much. You just point this here trained killin’ machine in the right direction and stand back from the spatter!”

  Anonymous with the hood of his anorak over his helmet, Erik Penwyth shifted his full mess kit into his left hand and dipped his mug into the kettle of bubbling tea.

  The half-awake cook nearby didn’t notice that Penwyth’s mug was already nearly full of small purple crystals. He dumped them into the kettle, pretended to scoop up tea, wandered away, looking for an unoccupied tree limb or vehicle hood to use for a table. Out of sight, he looked at the glop in his mess kit, grimaced, dumped it, and trotted away toward Gamma Team’s camouflaged position.

  The effects of the potassium permanganate crystals would be interesting. In a few hours, depending on bladder capacity, everyone who’d had tea with his breakfast would be urinating a nice, passionate red, which would work real wonders for morale.

  • • •

  Caud Williams cleverly disengaged his right flank, pulled it back to a hidden LZ with waiting Griersons, then sent it and his reserve regiment in on the left, closing off any possibility for the Blue Force to retreat west, into the rolling hills behind Leggett’s Heights. Now their only retreat was Mount Najim.

  “Flipping clever,” Hedley said cynically. “Now, if I were Strike Force Commander and running this flipping mess, and it was a real flipping war, I’d want to punt my enemy back into those nice open foothills, where he’s wide-open for arty and air, and I could obliterate his flipping ass in detail. But what do I know about war? I’m only a flipping alt, and I didn’t write the script, either. But let’s see if we can’t use this hooraw’s nest to have a little fun.”

  • • •

  Four I&R Teams rode Cookes south-southwest, in the dying light, between the Swift Lance main line and the oncoming Swift Lance left wing. One Cooke’s drive blew, but the other three successfully arrived deep behind “enemy” lines, setting down in scrub jungle about two hundred meters in from the road from the coast to the Strike Force lines.

  “ ’Kay,” Petr Kipchak ordered. “I’m gonna take Gamma first, then Alpha, then Delta. Monique, you want to cover my flanks with Beta?”

  “Why do you get to go first?” Lir asked. “I outrank you.”

  “Same reason I’m running the patrol. This was my idea.”

  “Things are liable to get interesting,” Alpha Team Leader’s dec, Nectan, muttered. “You realize there isn’t one of us who’s operated with any other team? Nice on-the-job training.”

  “So what?” Petr asked reasonably. “We’re just beating up crunchies. It isn’t like they’re ’Raum, knowing the turf and lugging a real gun or two, now is it?”

  “Strong point.”

  “However, you did bring up a valid issue. Brief your teams — if we step in the doggie-doo, pull back across this river we’re gonna come to and hit ‘em once, hard, move on out. We’ll RV fifty meters back of this here vehicle park, giving them the Cookes, which should be a surprise; then pull back another three hundred meters, backtrailing and ambushing anybody who’s still on our ass. Set up a defensive perimeter, and we’ll move out for home at false dawn. But that’s only if everything’s blown. Let’s go find somebody and ruin what’s left of their day.” He looked around. “Njangu … take point.”

  Yoshitaro covered his surprise — he surely didn’t feel ready. He started to protest, saw Petr’s expression in the twilight. “Moving out, boss.” He paced forward, remembering how he’d gone down city streets, every nerve, every tendril feeling for something strange, something hostile. A game, sure, he thought. Next time it’ll likely be ’Raum. Good practice, like they say.

  He moved up to the river, peered across it from under a bush, saw no enemy waiting. He motioned for flankers, waited until a weapons team came up. Njangu motioned, as he’d learned. Me first … then you two … then the rest will cross in file. Flankers go wide on either side of the main column. He realized that, for a moment, the Force’s greenest soldier, he was in command of thirty people’s lives — and relished it, just as he’d reveled in leading his clique into villainy.

  The water was cold, about waist-deep. He went across
the ten-meter-wide water, facing upstream, scuttled quickly up the far bank. Secure. Cross. The I&R patrol followed him. On the farside they re-formed, and went on to the road. Njangu crouched in brush beside it, weapon ready.

  Petr and Monique came up, motioned for him to keep watch to the south. They went to the center of the fragmenting pavement, knelt, and held some sort of conference, frequently examining the roadbed. Njangu had no idea what they were looking at or for. Monique made the motion of flipping coin, Petr tapped his butt. She shook her head in mock dismay, motioned him to go south.

  Kipchak came back. “Patrol south, staying on this side of the road,” he whispered. “I’ll have two SSWs right behind you. If you see them before they see you, pull off to the side, grenade ‘em, and we’ll attack. If they see you first” — he shrugged — “try to ‘die’ neatly.”

  They moved about two kilometers, and it was very dark when they heard the whine of vehicles and saw the flicker of headlights, very much against maneuver regulations.

  “ ’Kay,” Petr said in what Njangu thought was a shout, jolting him, then he realized Kipchak had spoken in a normal voice. “Alpha, Beta, right side of the road, one SSW right here, the rest of you flank on back. Beta, Gamma, filter on back with ‘em. Dorwith, set your SSW up here, back of Njangu. Monique, move your Squad Weapon back of ‘em after they stop, and when I holler run a burst out.”

  “Got it, boss,” Dorwith said.

  “ ’Kay, Finf Kipchak,” Monique said. “I’ll be running the blaster myself. RHIP.” She disappeared down the winding road.

  “Njangu, take off your Aggressor armband.”

  Njangu obeyed. Kipchak did the same, setting his blaster against a tree. He unfastened his combat vest, let it hang open, rolled one sleeve up, tossed his helmet on the ground.

  “If they win, they can shoot us as spies,” Petr said. “Now, you lie down here, just to the side of the road, and I’m going to look desperate. You fell over with some kind of creeping crud, and we desperately need help. Here they come.”

  The six Griersons were configured for cargo, their rear deck a sealable single compartment from the TC’s hatch back. Their only armament was a single heavy blaster in each turret, and the guns were pointed skyward, unmanned. They were traveling about ten feet above the ground, as maneuver doctrine prescribed this close to the lines, below the horizon of any TA radar.