March of the Legion sotl-2

by Marshall S. Thomas

  The screen was a hot white glow, my eyes were no longer focusing. I picked up the datacard. I did not need to look at it again. "Come quickly. I need you now." Deadman! The Gods were here, again. Tara—blessed, holy Tara. I knew I had no choice—no choice at all!

  ###

  The squad drifted into the room slowly. Snow Leopard sat behind the desk in the Station Commander's personal office. It was a huge, semi-circular conference desk, inlaid with comsets and d-screens. Snow Leopard was like a sinister white spider at the center of a vast web of power and pain. His gaze flicked constantly over the screens as the remaining squad members filed in. The lights were down, and he was partially hidden in the shadows. A panoramic window port gave us a view of the approaches to the base. The starport was visible in the distance, partially obscured by the forest. It was a grey cold day, still lightly raining.

  I was seated, still a little tense after my talk with Snow Leopard. I had decided to throw myself on his mercy. There had really been no other way. But Snow Leopard always did things his way. I still didn't know what he had decided, but he was calling in the squad.

  Dragon showed up first, dark and silent, dressed in wet camfax, sliding an airchair out from the desk and settling in without comment. He rested his E against the desk. Dragon moved slowly but menacingly, like a great snake, a constrictor, poised to strike. His ears and hands were covered with dark tattoos from a dark past. Lost faces looked up at me from his knuckles. I knew some of the faces—four of them decorated my own knuckles. Dragon was a first-class killer. I always felt better when he was around.

  "The beacons are operational," Merlin announced, slipping into a chair next to Dragon. He was soaking wet, pale and tense, dripping water from a floppy camfax hat, sliding a wet techscan onto the desk top. Merlin was a science freak. He understood everything. Central had recently approached him, asking him to return to Starcom to participate in some new research effort on the O's. It was a big opportunity for Merlin, a chance to do something close to his heart. Something he was born to do. He had turned them down. What a tragedy. He would die in the mud with the rest of us. Died in service, it would say—died in service. I thought it a terrible waste. It made him just as crazy as the rest of us—but after Mongera, nobody was going to walk away.

  "Good," Snow Leopard replied. "Redhawk, did we get that shipment off to Narra Base?"

  "Tenners. Should keep them happy for awhile. I threw in some sex holos." Redhawk pulled his chair out, smiling, looking around. He had an unruly head of extra-long, tangled red hair, a scruffy beard, and a pale splotchy face. He was certifiably insane—a good soul.

  "So what's the word?" Psycho dropped his Manlink noisily onto the desk top. He was always doing things like that. Psycho was another mental case, but I suppose he had his good points. The Manlink was certainly all right—we all owed our lives to the weapon.

  "Put it on the floor," Snow Leopard said quietly. He was used to dealing with Psycho. Psycho complied, grinning happily.

  Priestess took the last seat at the desk, silently. She was a pale slim child, soft dark hair, blinking liquid eyes, wearing wet camfax raingear. She always took my breath away. Beta Nine, Priestess, my own child, my own future. We had vowed to die together—I could not imagine living without her.

  "We all here?" Snow Leopard looked around the room. Valkyrie and Scrapper had taken up positions together, sitting on the floor against the wall. Valkyrie had an arm resting on Scrapper's shoulder. Valkyrie had been Gamma Two, and Scrapper had been Gamma Five, but that was all done now—Gamma was history, annihilated on Andrion 3 and Mongera. Now the two survivors were part of Beta, but Snow Leopard could not bring himself to use the proper designations—Beta Two and Six and Seven were still with us, in our minds. It would seem strange, maybe sacrilegious, to call out their numbers and have someone else respond. So Gamma Two became Beta Eleven, and Gamma Five became Beta Twelve.

  Valkyrie was stunningly beautiful, a pale blonde girl with icy green eyes and a black Legion cross burnt right onto her forehead. Scrapper was another heartbreaker, a thick mop of tawny hair, grey eyes, a freckled face, and heavy breasts. Valkyrie had been mine once, briefly, in another time and place. But now she belonged only to the Legion—and Scrapper belonged only to Valkyrie. Since Mongera, Valkyrie's eyes had glowed with hatred and her cold, perfect face was radiant with a strange, powerful energy. It was frightening—it was almost as if her dead fem lover Boudicca had secretly returned and inhabited her body. I knew how hard to resist Valkyrie had always been for me. And now Valkyrie seemed to have appropriated Scrapper for herself, with no effort at all. Scrapper was stunned and shattered by what had happened. There were now only the two of them left from Gamma, and Scrapper did not appear to have the will to resist Valkyrie. In the mornings they would appear together at breakfast, Scrapper with bruises all over her neck. Valkyrie was lovelier than ever and burning with a savage sexuality. I prayed she would not turn her smouldering eyes to me again. Priestess watched Valkyrie the same way you'd watch a highly-poisonous snake. I guess she knew I could never summon the courage to resist Valkyrie. All I could do was stay close to Priestess and pray for protection.

  I suppose it was a very strange squad, when you really thought about it. We were walkers, the walking wounded. Maybe that's why we had been dumped on Veda 6. The Legion probably wanted to insure we were still under control.

  "All right, gang," Snow Leopard said quietly. "Thinker has got a problem. I've listened to him, and I've made my decision. I'd like the rest of you to hear this, as it concerns us all. Thinker, tell them what you told me." Snow Leopard turned back to the screens, tracking the sit. He had a lot to worry about, even in a backwater world like Veda 6.

  I activated the control, and the message filled the wall screen. The squad took it in silently. Finally Dragon spoke. "So who's Tara?"

  "Tara," I responded, "is Cintana Tamaling. I believe you all remember her—the slaver, Commander of the P.S. Maiden."

  "The girl with the pet ape," Psycho remarked with a wry grin.

  "That's right," I said. "The girl who saved us all. The girl who dropped out of the sky firing tacstars. The girl who got us off Mongera. Right—the girl with the ape."

  The message glowed on the screen. "Come quickly. I need you now." It wasn't complicated. The most important issues rarely are. Tara herself had taught me that.

  "The way I see it," I said, "she came when we needed her. Now she says she needs my help. I think I should go."

  "Why you?" Merlin asked.

  Why me. How could I possibly explain that? Tara and Wester—people from the past. She was Tara, and I was Wester, in a warmer, simpler world. And now we were out here at Chaos Gate, and Tara was calling in the past. I wasn't Wester any more, but I would always be hers—that was certain.

  "We're old friends," I replied.

  "She helped us," Valkyrie said, from her post by the wall. "We should help her." Then she turned her eyes away, bored.

  Yes, Tara helped us. We would all be dead, without her divine intervention. She fell from the sky like an avenging angel and struck down our enemies with thunderbolts from Hell. We owed her our lives. How could I not go?

  "You should go," Dragon said. There was a general murmur of agreement.

  "What kind of trouble can she be in on Mica Three?"

  "That's a Legion world."

  "She's a slaver—it could be bad."

  "Probably something illegal."

  "It doesn't matter—we should help."

  "I thought she had some kind of in with the Legion."

  "What does she want, Thinker?"

  "All I know is what's in the message," I replied. "Just that. So what's the word, One? Do I go?" I had already decided I was going—it was not really an issue. The only issue was whether or not I got Snow Leopard's permission. It would be a lot easier with it. Without it, I was going to call in all my cards—Dragon, Merlin, Priestess, Redhawk, Valkyrie—they were all going to help me. I already knew what each one
was going to do to help me get off Veda 6. I couldn't see anyone turning me down. We had been through a lot together.

  "Tell them the rest," Snow Leopard said.

  I turned back to the screen. "As you can see, she's given me funding. I presume it's for the trip. If you're not on official business you can still travel, even on Legion ships, if that's all that's available. But it costs plenty. The current fare to Mica Three from here is twenty-two thousand credits—one way. You can't pay return fare in advance, because the route might not be the same. As you can see, she's forwarded exactly three times what I need."

  "Sounds like she's trying to tell you something," Merlin commented.

  "That's what I think," I said. "I think she wants me to bring a couple of buddies."

  "Why didn't she just say it?" Dragon asked. "If she can afford to send you close to a million credits, she can afford a few more words in the star tracer."

  I shook my head. "That's just the way she is. She never says anything straight out."

  "It sounds pretty straight to me," Psycho laughed. "I need you—ha! We may never see Thinker again!" Psycho could be counted on to say something like that. Everyone ignored him. Snow Leopard stirred, partially hidden in the shadows.

  "All right, this is it," he said. "We certainly owe her. Thinker, you get three weeks sick leave—Priestess will prep it. That much is within my power. If you choose to travel during that period, it's your business. It's highly unusual, but there's nothing illegal about it. What happens after you get there, we don't know. It's true that Cintana Tamaling has close ties to the Legion. But she's on a Legion world. Whatever problem she has evidently cannot be solved officially. It may be illegal. All I can say is use your best judgment, don't get caught, and be back in three weeks at the latest. Earlier, if you can. We're not staying here forever. We'll be moving soon—I'm expecting a big offensive against the O's. And I don't want to have to explain any missing troopers."

  I was light-headed with relief. I should have known Beta One would come through! It was so much better this way. Finally I found my voice. "I owe you, One. Can I take two guys with me?" I figured I might as well press it; Snow Leopard owed his life to Tara, after all.

  "Who do you want?" Snow Leopard was expressionless. I knew it would hurt, asking for Dragon.

  "I want Eight—and Nine." I wouldn't be afraid of anything, with Dragon at my side. And Priestess—yes, she was for protection as well.

  "Nine!" Psycho exclaimed. "Thinker, you scut! You're just afraid to leave her here with me!"

  "You wish!" Priestess shot back at him.

  "Dragon?" One asked.

  Dragon was staring into space. He told me later that at that instant he had flashed back to Tara, leaping from the escape pod on Mongera holding an E, covering her mouth, a hot nuclear wind blowing her hair around. Dragon blinked, and turned to me, then back to Snow Leopard. "Sure, I'll go," he said.

  "Priestess?"

  Priestess wet her lips. "Tenners." Her gaze flashed over to me. "I'll come."

  "Priestess," Snow Leopard said. "Sick leave for the three of you. I'll approve it. Now get moving. First leg is that freighter to Aran. If we're not here when you get back, I'll expect you to find us."

  ###

  I brooded alone in my cube, trying to decide what to take. I didn't like it one bit. This summons from Tara was exactly the last thing I needed. We had enough problems, trying to regenerate the squad after the disastrous mission against the O's on Mongera. And now this. Yes, we owed her, we all owed her, but it wasn't fair. My mind whirled with terrifying images, echoes from the past.

  After Mongera they had sent us here, to a medmod on Veda 6, a backwater garrison world reserved for the truly lost, where the air tasted of sweet rain and forest and the nights were still and cold with a billion stars glittering in a deep black sky. We had time to think.

  Priestess and I didn't need any words. I kept my new arm around her, although I guess it was really the Legion's arm. The damned thing felt fine. We'd lie out there on the terrace of the medmod on deckchairs under the stars, and the rest of Beta would be all around us, silent. I wondered why we were there, but Priestess knew exactly why she was there. She had always been stronger than I. The Systies had almost killed her, but she had survived. She had taken x-max right in the chest and was still badly scarred. She worried that it meant she was not beautiful any more. I told her it was the mark of the Legion, and that it made her more beautiful than ever.

  She was closer to me than before, but more distant at the same time. It was not easy to talk—we preferred not to talk. It was enough just to be together.

  They saved our dead for us. When we were all out of the bodyshop, we burnt them in a still dark night lit up by nuclear flames. Five bodies, all in their A-suits, just as they had been when hit—Coolhand and Warhound and Ironman and Boudicca and Sassin, laid out side by side on the platform under dark stars, and all the brutal horror of their deaths came flooding back. Snow Leopard and Valkyrie held the torch and touched it gently to the pyre and the platform flashed and burst into white-hot flames and the Gods of War consumed them, five nuclear pyres glaring in the night like miniature stars. I cried like a baby.

  Snow Leopard survived—so they said. Better than new, the body shop claimed. I was not at all certain about that. Snow Leopard was always a bit distant. In the old days, he talked with me. Later he talked with Coolhand and Merlin. Now he didn't talk at all. It didn't matter. We'd still follow him to Hell.

  Shortly after our arrival at Minos Station, One called each of us into his cube, where he sat at his desk with printout tacmaps of the battlefield at Fernveldt. He asked each of us to go over, in exhaustive detail, what we had done and where we had been and what we had seen. We answered him, he thanked us, and that was that. Since then he had stayed by himself. I figured he was going over the action to see if he had done anything wrong. To see if he should blame himself, for all our dead. I knew he was bleeding inside for his lover Boudicca—and for the others too. Foolish—nobody could have done better than our One. Nobody! I'd follow him tomorrow—today! Just give me the word.

  We may have been walkers, but we were all there. We had all changed. Dragon was harder than ever. He had added some new images to those strange pale miniature faces which adorned his hands and knuckles—the dead, faces from his past. I knew their images and numbers were on the monument as well, the Legion Monument to the Dead, with that final line: Died in Service.

  Died in Service—that fate was reserved for us all. They died facing the enemy. They died for us, I thought, for all of us, for the Legion, and the Legion is us.

  I touched a holcard that was lying on my desk and both squads flashed to life in miniature, mils from my face. We grinned at the holscan, splattered with the mud of Planet Hell, celebrating some mindless triumph. Beta and Gamma, living and dead—we were all still there. My heart burned with grief. Psycho was smirking, seemingly ready to plunge a hot knife into Dragon's back. Psycho would be all right—wielding a Manlink was his destiny. He'd be a little tougher, a little nastier, after Mongera, but he'd be all right. I knew he had been especially depressed by Warhound's death. It had been the same with me. Both Warhound and Ironman were special. They were innocents, I thought, in the service of a savage God. I'd never told either one how I felt. And now they were gone. And Coolhand—Deadman, Beta Two was my blood brother. The Gods had snatched him away, and it didn't seem right. They were all in the picture—Coolhand and Warhound and Ironman. Children, grinning in the face of death.

  If it doesn't kill you, it makes you stronger. Old Legion saying. Yes, that was Mongera all right. I could still see Millina, the Bitch, raising Coolhand's E and blasting that Systie soldier right in the face. Lunacy—she was just as crazy as we were. She was a Mocain, our enemy, but she had turned on her masters and now she wanted to join the Legion—to walk through the Gate, just as we all had done. She had said she just wanted to carry an E, only that. Then she leaned over and kissed Valkyrie tenderly on
the forehead, right on the Legion cross, and said goodbye. A new life, for Millina. I knew she didn't have to worry about the psych. She was exactly what the Legion was looking for.

  Our dead were still with us—they would always be with us. Nobody here dies in vain! The Second had said that right after the Coldmark raid. But what had we died for? The lab rats had wet their pants with delight when they saw the dead Omni we brought back. Millions of O's would die, I was convinced. But the System would not pay for its betrayal of humanity, or even for its betrayal of us. ConFree had decided to pass everything we had learned about the O, and everything we were to learn, to the Systies—despite the Systies' attempt to steal all that knowledge away, knowledge we had paid for in blood. It was too important, they had decided, to keep. Our struggle with the Systies could wait—this was a war for the survival of humanity, and every world the O's seized from the System was a direct threat to us. That's what they said. I didn't follow their logic—the United System Alliance was a totalitarian obscenity, founded on slavery and coercion. The Confederation of Free Worlds and the Legion had always opposed everything the System stood for. Pass vital military information to the System? It was treason, I thought—a betrayal of everything we fought for. I knew I would never trust ConFree again—not ever. I wondered what Boudicca would have said—or done—had she known. It seemed there was nothing that could be done. It was out of our hands. But it was not going to end there as far as I was concerned. The Legion stood for justice—that's what they had told us since the very beginning. And this wasn't justice.

  Ironman was in the front row of the holo. I had done a star tracer to Alpha Station, asking them to tell Moontouch that I was alive, and Ironman was dead. She would relay the news to Ironman's Taka girlfriend, Morning Light. Someone had to speak for the dead. In my world, even some of the living might as well be dead. I knew Moontouch awaited me on Andrion, praying in the dark to strange Gods, and there was not a chance in a million that I would ever return to her. Moontouch was my lover, my wife, my lost future. I did not know what to do about Moontouch. She must have had my baby by now—I was starting a new race, all by myself. Half Legion and half Taka—he would be a tough little kid, a survivor. I could hear the Legion chant, echoing in my head.