March of the Legion

by Marshall S. Thomas

  "It's going the wrong way," Whit objected, "It's headed right for the DefCorps aircar!"

  "I know," Redhawk responded quietly. "Where's the freakin' armament? Is that…"

  "Yes, it's a DefCorps chainlink, but it's not going to shoot it out, is it? We've got to get out of here!"

  "Somebody shut her down," Redhawk requested, dropping the car below treetop level. A green blur flashed past all around us—my heart was in my mouth.

  "Don't interfere," Dragon cautioned Whit. "Redhawk knows what he's doing."

  "If it knows what it's doing, how did it get shot down?" Whit asked shakily.

  "There were four of them," Redhawk retorted angrily. "Now shut down."

  "DefCorps aircar closing!" the car warned.

  "Come, you bitch," Redhawk muttered. He snapped the controls up. We burst through the forest roof up into the clear; rainclouds close above.

  "We are on a collision course!" The aircar called out.

  I had seen Redhawk do this before, and I never liked it. The enemy aircar glowed on the screen.

  "Come to Daddy, come, you bitch."

  "Chainlink functional—lockon! Enemy has locked on!"

  "Missiles! Ignition!" Redhawk squeezed the trigger. A sharp burst, then we made a ninety degree turn and I almost blacked out and suddenly we were back in the forest, back in the shadows, trees flashing past, a luminous green roof flickering overhead. Redhawk released deceptors behind us.

  I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth—how in the world did he do it? A series of explosions reached our ears, shockwaves shaking the car. The scope was littered with junk.

  "Direct hit, gang." Redhawk pulled the aircar brutally out of the forest, exploding through the treetops, rain hitting the plex.

  "That was not bad," Whit said quietly.

  "I'm good in bed, too," Redhawk replied.

  "Head for the shuttle," Dragon ordered. "We've got to lift."

  "Highroad, Whit. How goes the loading?"

  "We just finished."

  "Good! Prep for liftoff—we're on the way back. As soon as we dock, we want liftoff!"

  "Got it, we're sealed already."

  "Any signs of trouble?"

  "Negative."

  "Psycho, get back in position by the door," Dragon ordered. We may have to shoot our way in."

  "We didn't know about this," Millina said suddenly. "There would be a very limited number of people who would be aware of it. Maybe only the bunch in those aircars. It could be that nobody in Mongera Port knows what it's all about. We might have no trouble at all."

  I picked up an E with my one good hand. Tara was conscious. Priestess breathed heavily, her eyes blinking. I struggled to a sitting position, facing the door. Psycho and Merlin were all set. Dragon was in the cockpit, watching Whit and Redhawk. Valkyrie was checking the wounded, leaning over Scrapper.

  "Scrapper's stable. You'll be all right, Scrapper."

  "Sassin…how's Sassin?" Scrapper sounded as if she was already in Dreamland.

  "Don't talk. Rest. I've given you a mag." Valkyrie turned to Priestess. "How are you doing, Priestess?"

  "How are the others?" Priestess asked weakly. "Is Snow Leopard all right?"

  "Try to rest. We'll be home soon."

  I was ready for whatever happened, my E fixed on the door. I did not want to know about Snow Leopard. My mouth tasted like acid. No, I did not want to know.

  ###

  The transmission came in as we were nearing the Port. "Millina, it's the First. Millina, respond. Is it wounded? Repeat, First to Millina, please respond."

  Millina reached over between Whit and Redhawk and triggered the transmit tab of the comset. The laser spot of my E roamed over her back. "Excellency, Millina. What a surprise. We were not told of its presence here."

  "Millina! It's wonderful to hear its voice! We were very worried. Has the mission succeeded? Those fools that attacked it thought it was a Legion raiding party. We only just found out about it—an unforgivable mess! Is it all right?"

  "We're fine, thanks, Excellency."

  "We're sorry about the foul-up. It was a stupid move and somebody will pay for it. Was the mission successful?"

  "Yes, Excellency, fully successful."

  "Good! Good! That's wonderful news! Well, carry on as planned. I'll notify everyone that it was successful. Sub cannot imagine how anxious we have been to hear this news. Congratulations, Millina! It's a brilliant coup, and we will insure that its designation is mentioned prominently in the official reports."

  "Our thanks, Excellency."

  "We hope the cooperating units were not upset about the attack. It realizes we could not inform anyone of its presence. We suppose it was a natural reaction by the DefCorps. We thought we could stop anything like that before it got started. But the situation here is extremely chaotic—we did not hear what was happening until it was too late!"

  "We understand, Excellency."

  "Please explain to them what happened. We are compiling a full report."

  "We will do our best, Excellency."

  "We know Sub will, Millina. And, again, congratulations! First out."

  Millina cut the commo on the aircar's instrument panel.

  She hunched over between Whit and Redhawk. Mongera Port came into view ahead, swarming with activity. A liner thundered up into the dark sky. "Burn in Hell, Excellency," she said quietly. "Burn in Hell. They must be out of assets. Otherwise, they wouldn't be talking." She had bought us a few more marks.

  "Whit," Tara gasped. "Did it pick up those children? Forest Hill?"

  "Affirmative, Commander. Squalling brats! They're all safe aboard the Highroad. Cit is getting soft in its old age! The bankers and lawyers would have paid us." Whit was twitching with exhaustion, but she obviously worshipped Tara.

  And I thought she was right, about Tara—picking up doomed children, in the midst of this chaos. That was the Tara I had known.

  "Highroad aircar, Mongera Port Customs. Please proceed to Inspection Bay Orange Five, as marked. We wish to examine its cargo."

  "I knew it!" Dragon snarled. "Ignore them."

  "Stinking bureaucrats!" Psycho exclaimed, "The world is ending and they want to fill out forms!"

  "Whit…" Tara was conscious, still in Gildron's hairy arms. "Refuse, cite our agreement with the Government. Our terms, accepted by them…ah, para ten, our right to pick up any special case refugees, any location, to be determined by us, no inspection, free access to and from the shuttle and the ship."

  "Commander, it is a genius!"

  "We know." Tara closed her eyes. She looked truly weary. Whit repeated it, firmly, to Mongeran Customs.

  "Hold one, Highroad aircar."

  "Keep going," Dragon ordered. Someone was moaning. I was just barely conscious—it was a red haze. An aircar flashed past outside. Tara was pale and her eyes were closed. The humanoid was stunned, staring into space, holding on to Tara protectively. Priestess grimaced in pain, icy sweat all over her brow. Millina looked sick, still huddled between Whit and Redhawk in the cockpit. Whit was grim and tense. Redhawk was silent. Valkyrie and Merlin were watching over Snow Leopard, keeping him alive. Dragon and Psycho had their weapons pointed at both doors. Scrapper was feverish, talking to herself. And the others were all around us, I thought, a whole squad of A-suits. All my comrades are here—living and dead, we are all here, riding back from the mission. Ghost riders, I thought, still with us, the living. Everyone has come back except the two Systies, the soldier and the dip. And in view of what had happened, we would not miss them. I was still by the assault door behind my E, fighting to stay conscious in a gritty, throbbing wave of raw hot agony. I knew my left arm was gone, but I didn't even care. Priestess was on the deck beside me, her chest bubbling black blood. Her eyes were shut tight and she was trembling and I could read the despair in her face. I put the E down, and the armored fingers of my one good hand closed over hers.

  "I'm here, Priestess." I whispered it. She answered with a faint moan,
clutching my fingers tightly. And I vowed to love her forever, and never leave her. I didn't want to see the future anymore, I suddenly realized. I wanted to extinguish it. But even as I held Nine's hand, I prayed to Deadman for revenge, against all our enemies. I wanted blood. I wanted to see the corpses of our enemies floating in rivers of blood. My mind whirled with images—our holy dead were with us, riding home. We would burn them, under alien stars—I could see the death ceremony, hot green nuclear flames licking around my A-suit, I was on the pyre as someone chanted the death song: "Missing in action, we join you soon!" Perhaps we, the living, the immortals, were the real dead. The others were free, at last, but we would never be free.

  Moontouch appeared before me in my agony, a hazy image, holding up our child, calling out to me over the light years. I was certain I would never see her again, and I would never hold my own son in my arms. I was shaking with rage. Someone was going to pay for this—I didn't know who, and I didn't know when, but someone was going to pay for Mongera—I would see to it if it was the last thing I ever did.

  "Highroad aircar, Mongera Customs. You may proceed to the Highroad."

  Whit did not even bother to answer.

  Priestess squeezed my hand. We were both alive—who could possibly ask for more?

  Chapter 13:

  Cold New Worlds

  Rain. Warm heavy rain from dark skies, to wash away our sins. A muted roar, a faint tingling on my skin—a tropical downpour. It was wet season on Veda 6. The jungle was awash, shuddering behind heavy sheets of rain. I was thinking of her even then. Strange, that the rain should bring her back. I stood silently on the walkway gazing into the forest, protected by the overhanging bulk of the base. I was walking perimeter for Minos Station, an E at my chest, dressed in litesuit camfax, alone with my mind. There used to be entire squads walking perimeter here. But now there was only me.

  I was just a regular guy, I thought. Perfectly normal. Except for being immortal. And being a professional killer. And being insane! But, aside from that, I was perfectly normal. Just like the rest of the guys! So why did I feel that Deadman had me in his sights?

  No, the rain was not enough to wash away our sins, I concluded. Not nearly enough. Maybe a tacstar would do it, or a laser track through the brain—but nothing less. Until then, we remained immortals, survivors, sinners in the eyes of the Gods of Fate.

  "Three, One." That's how it started, a call from Snow Leopard. Just another call. We are microbes—we are clay. Immortal, for an instant. The Gods breathe, and we die.

  "One, Three," I answered.

  "Report to Opcen."

  "Tenners." I turned back to the main entrance. There was no rush. Perimeter duty was just make-work for us. Nothing was going to come at us on Veda 6. And if it did, Snow Leopard would know about it without my help. Perimeter duty was just therapy, I thought, for Beta. Whether it would help or not was debatable.

  Inside I walked empty halls, boots echoing down gleaming, half-lit corridors. Dark doorways lined my path like crypts. I felt like an intruder in the tomb of a long-dead emperor. Minos Station was a top-line Legion base—they didn't make them any better than this. The Legion was not into opulence, but the cold stark beauty of a major Legion station always gave me a charge. There was a sense of limitless power in a Legion station. And to see it as it was then, completely deserted, was downright eerie.

  I took an elevator to topsides. It was silent except for a faint whistle as I shot upwards. The floor numbers flashed past on the panel. My camfax leaked water all over the deck. I made sure the E was set to safe.

  Beta One sat alone in the Station opcen, a pale statue in a little pool of blue light surrounded by a vast darkened room of sensors and comsets and megadeath weapons systems. We were atop the base. Armored plex gave us the view, a dark morning, low grey clouds shedding rain over our own jungle. Once this opcen had teemed with life, once this had been the heart of a vast Legion hive. But now it belonged only to us, only to Beta.

  Snow Leopard looked up as I approached. He was pale as death, hot pink eyes blinking at me under long straight blond hair, hair so blond it was almost white. Faint blue veins throbbed at his temples. He was dressed in a camfax litesuit. Beta One, our own Snow Leopard. Our heartbeat, our brain—our soul. Speak, One, and it will be done. Without thought, without regrets. We had all been together too long, and seen too much. We were in it now to the end, and Snow Leopard was on point. We had almost lost him on Mongera. We had all left little pieces of ourselves on Mongera, but Snow Leopard had left more than the rest of us, I knew.

  "You've got a message," Snow Leopard said. He sat before the Station Commander's conmod. He slid a datacard to me along the console without further comment.

  "A message?" I picked up the card and stared at it stupidly. "What kind of message?" I was truly mystified.

  "A personal message. Star tracer." Snow Leopard looked up at me briefly, then turned back to the screens, vaguely troubled. "What's the latest on the port?"

  "Merlin is still working on it," I responded. "Says he'll be done soon." It was not easy to keep a full Legion station functioning smoothly at low power with only one squad. The problem at the port was one of many. The war was stretching the Legion's resources, and Veda 6 had been stripped of almost all personnel. We were on hold, far from anywhere even remotely important—a ghost squad guarding a dead station, standing night watch for a deserted world.

  I left Snow Leopard behind me alone with his own phantoms and took the elevator down to ground. I walked through a cavernous cold hall wreathed in shadows and found my way to the library. It was dark. I found a cube and hit the lights and sank into the airchair.

  I was tired. We were only wasting time here, I knew. I wasn't sure if we deserved it or not. I placed the datacard on the desk before me. A personal message, from the unknown. A personal message, hurtling through the light years, sparkling through alternate worlds, blasting past all the magical barriers of reality and extinction, into the out and out to the in, matter and antimatter, all the way to Veda 6, all the way to Beta Three. Who did I know who would send me a personal message across the galaxy? Who did I know who could afford it? A star tracer could eat up your life's savings. My past was dead—I could think of no one from the past who would want to contact me, for any reason. Joining the Legion was like dying—you left the world of mortals, for some other place. People did not normally send messages to the dead.

  The card had my Legion serial number glowing on the address line. It was for me, all right. I placed it on the tray and pressed it on. It was a genetic ID—for me alone. More expense. The message came up immediately in cold white light on the cube screen: "Come quickly. I need you now. Mica 3, 252-042211. Cite private A/C Black Rose 172472, valid CR 66,000. Tara."

  Tara. Tara! I should have known. Who else? Tara, coming at me like a nightmare. My very own past, coming right at me again. A wave of cold prickled over my skin. I had thought I would never see her again. She last appeared to me through a fever dream, when I was down and out in the body shop of the P.S. Maiden. She was pale and weak, standing only by sheer willpower, her brow beaded with cold sweat. Her humanoid pet was hovering by her side, anxious to hold her up but forbidden to touch. That was vintage Tara.

  "Goodbye, Wester," she said softly. "It's a big galaxy. I doubt we'll meet again. I hope you will remember Cintana Tamaling, who came to you when you needed her, on Mongera. I'll be out there somewhere—and thinking of you." She blinked hot smoky eyes and reached out her hand and touched my sweaty forehead and made the sign of the Legion. It was a blessing.

  "Tara," I said groggily, "call me. If you need me…call me. I'll be there!" I was not sure if she was really there, or if I was hallucinating, but that's what I said, and that's what I meant. She smiled a sad little smile and turned away with the beast. And when I awoke I was in the C. S. Spawn, and she was gone.

  I need you, the message said, now. This was Tara at her very best. No please, no explanation. You've said it, boy, now le
t's see it. Lord, what did it mean?

  I knew immediately I had to go, no matter what. It was surely impossible, but I had to do it anyway. Somehow. Mica 3—where the hell was that? It was a Legion world, I knew. And a number to call, upon arrival. Now what was the rest—an account number, an access code—66,000 credits! What the hell! That had to be for the passage. It was personal business, not official. Oh Tara, what are you doing to me? I'm a soldier of the Legion; I can't go shooting off across the galaxy on personal business whenever the mood strikes me.

  My mind flashed with frenzied images of Tara, exotic Assidic eyes blinking at me in the dark, long luxuriant auburn hair, pale brown satin skin, and teeth like white pearls. Stone cold beauty. It was an image I did not need, haunting me forever. What could she want? What could she possibly want? Only my soul. I was sweating, cold sweat on my brow. I accessed Center.

  "Give me route and costs, here to Mica Three, personal travel." The screen flickered and glowed with the data. Twenty-two thousand credits. Pricey. So what was the rest of the money for? That was Tara, too—it was a test. Figure it out, Wester—then do it! I could still hear her voice. She was always playing with me. I wasn't as bright as Tara. I knew it and she knew it. It had never mattered, in the beginning. But that was long ago—we had taken different roads to the present.

  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.