March of the Legion

by Marshall S. Thomas

  And if the warden already knew Ranwan Lima's true identity, we would probably never see the light of day again.

  The warden blinked one eye, and pressed a tab on his desk. A door opened, and a tall, strong blonde girl stepped in, dressed in prison brown.

  "Yes, Excellency?"

  "Ozette, this inmate has qualified for probation." The Warden handed Whit's master card to the blonde. "Check it out of GD and bring it here. Return the master to us as well. The citizen will accompany you." He motioned to me. Priestess nodded to me as well. I rose and followed the blonde out the door. Now all three of us were split up—we were in the hands of God.

  Down into the dark. What a ghastly place. It was a dungeon of stone—layer after layer of rotting, black, wet stone, sunk deep into the bowels of the earth. Great steel grates creaked open for us. Gates of rusted iron bars fell away, then clattered back into place behind us. Icy water dripped down like rain. Lonely pairs of guards huddled in greatcoats peered at us by torchlight.

  We paused at a landing lit by a single, madly flickering light panel. A pale bald giant came at us out of the dark, blinking in the light of the big blonde's flash.

  "Isn't that thing fixed yet?" Ozette asked.

  "We kinda like it." There was someone else hidden in the darkness; I couldn't make him out.

  "We've got a probation today, fellows," Ozette said. "But we think it's a problem." She handed the card to the giant.

  "Since when is a probation a problem?" the giant rumbled. "We should have a party." A furtive little man with the face of a rat joined him, bright eyes glittering. The big man looked up from the card. "We see what it means."

  "Check its files to be sure," the blonde said.

  "No need to check—but we'll do it. Four Six Oh Oh Four Oh Four." The giant rummaged in a rusty metal card file on a battered desk.

  "Four Oh Four…yes, here it is. It's gone. There hasn't been time to forward the full list to the top."

  Ozette took the card and read it, frowning. "Yes, we knew it. But we had to be sure. The Mask wants it for probation. Now we're in for it."

  "Four Oh Four," the little man added. "The Sweet Thing, oh yes, it's gone. Gone from our grasp. It's a shame."

  "Cit, is it here or not?" I asked abruptly. "What is the situation?"

  Ozette turned to me, troubled. "It was here, but it's gone now. It was a work transfer."

  "Signed by The Mask," the giant added.

  "That's right!" the little one whined. "Approved in its own hand, so it can't blame us!"

  "What is a work transfer, Cit?" I asked quietly.

  She looked into my eyes, hesitated a moment, then spoke. "Slavers," she said. "Locals. Under a work transfer, inmates are returned when the contract is over. Actually, that never happens, the actual amount never appears on the papers, and no one cares. The slavers make a prison run once a year, and pay top credit. You understand this information is dangerous and highly confidential."

  "When did this happen, Cit?"

  She glanced at the card. "It was only last week."

  "And if we wanted to track it down?"

  "First to the slave markets at Ostra Bal. Ask for the Body Shop, then ask for the Sandman. Slaves move fast—so it had better hurry."

  "We thank it, Cit. Please accept a small token." I pressed a hundred credmark card into her palm. Her fingers closed over it firmly.

  "Our thanks, Cit," she responded quietly. "We were all fond of Four Oh Four. We wish Cit luck."

  Chapter 17:

  The Sandman

  Ostra Bal was a vast tent city, a market town, across the river from the capital. Tents stretched as far as we could see, all joined together, held up by wooden poles. Colorful canvas material flapped in the breeze and everything on the planet was for sale beneath. Goods were piled high on either side of the narrow aisles, stinking fish markets and bloody butcher shops and dry goods and canned food and endless rows of clothing. There were shoe stalls and hardware and cutlery and cooking ware, commo gear and military equipment and toys, jewelry and furniture and rugs and live animals and birds, office equipment and datacards and restaurants. It seemed the whole population of Katag was there, streaming along the aisles, blinking in the smoke from the cooking fires, fingering the goods, and arguing with the shopkeepers.

  It was hot and sweaty and dirty. This was where the lower and middle classes shopped. We parked our aircar in a heavily-fortified lot and made a token down-payment to a gang of savage-looking punks to keep an eye on it.

  "They're selling SG's over there!" I exclaimed. The SG was a good weapon. We had not expected it to be available on the open market.

  "Well, let's get some!" Dragon replied. "But first we find the Body Shop."

  "All right." I stopped and pulled a ten-C credmark out of my wallet and held it up in front of me. A scruffy punk materialized out of nowhere and landed directly in front of me, raising a little cloud of dust. He gave me an elaborate salute.

  "Sir!" he shouted. "We are at its service!"

  I smiled. These people were fast. "We want the Body Shop," I said. "Please show us."

  He gave us a crazy grin, and spun around on his heels. "Follow us!"

  ###

  The Body Shop was a world in itself, a vast razorwire cage hidden behind glowing phospho sheets of thick synsilk tenting. It was shaded and cool and clean inside, with carpeted floors. Uniformed guards with vacguns watched us passively as we entered.

  "Welcome to the Body Shop." He was a slender young male, dark brown skin, slick wet hair, bright sparkling eyes, dressed in an elegant synsie suit. He was smiling obsequiously. "We are Armil Samot. Please…let us offer refreshments." He motioned off to one side. A wide low table was set for tea, surrounded by pillow seats. Little lovelies appeared out of the shadows bearing trays of hot tea and delicacies. They wore golden slave necklaces, I noticed.

  We went with the program, and I touched the tea to my lips but did not swallow any. Armil Samot was as smooth as oil. A real slimer. I wondered how he would look with the top of his head removed.

  "How may we help?" Samot asked. "We have a very wide range of talents and prices, everything from household helpers and agricultural workers to topline sexmates and professional fighters. And if we don't have it in stock, we can locate it very quickly."

  I put down my tea. "This is the Lady Arbell," I said. "The Lady wishes to speak with the Sandman."

  "The Sandman!" The slimer seemed surprised, but recovered quickly. "May we ask the subject to be discussed?"

  I looked over to Priestess. She shook her head.

  "We must speak with the Sandman directly," I said.

  He hesitated a moment, then picked up a comset and rattled off a brief message in an alien tongue. He listened to the response, then put the set away, smiling. "The Sandman will be here shortly. Please…take a look at some of our units while we are waiting." He raised his hands and clapped once. A procession of enchanting girls appeared from a slit in one cloth wall, lovely little things, soft eyes and long hair and slender, supple bodies. They strolled along a little catwalk that ran right through the center of our table, pirouetting like models showing off a new line of clothes. But these girls were all clothed in short, filmy tunics of gossamer silk. They all had golden slave necklaces at their throats and each girl had a number on a little plastic disk pinned to her tunic. They were followed by several youths with oiled skin, handsome and well-muscled, naked but for their jox, also wearing slave necklaces and numbers.

  "Sexmates," the slimer was saying. "They are well-trained. Our units are all graduates of the Home Arts Institute of Lucos. And our prices are very competitive."

  "How competitive?" Dragon asked. "For one of the girls, for example. How much?"

  "Well, which one interests us?" The slimer brightened and stopped the parade, and brought the girls back. They stood behind him patiently, eyes downcast. Precious little dolls. If this slaver knew we were Legion, he would probably shit in his perfectly tailored pants. The L
egion's role was to kill slavers, without hesitation or mercy. I was aching to put a laser burst right between his bright, beady eyes. It hurt, sitting there doing nothing while those little, helpless sweeties were standing there, completely in his power.

  "We just want an idea of the general price range," Dragon responded. "For example, Number Sixty-five."

  The slimer made a quick gesture and Number 65 glided down the catwalk onto the table and pirouetted slowly above us. She was a genuine heart-stopper, slender and willowy, long silky brown hair and exquisite tanned legs and generous breasts and big dark eyes and soft full lips. Dragon had good taste in women.

  "An excellent choice," the slimer said. "Quite frankly, Number Sixty-five is one of our more expensive units. It is not truly representative of our mid-line prices. Besides its obvious beauty, it is a medically-certified virgin. There is a big demand for virgins and this drives the price up. Please, look over its stats." He handed over a glossy brochure to Eight, then nodded to the girl.

  She touched the tunic and it fell away, leaving her completely nude. She pirouetted once again. She was truly lovely. She was doing things to me, already. I wondered who would end up owning her.

  "And the price?" Dragon asked again.

  "For a virgin of such exquisite beauty," the slimer said, "We would have to ask one hundred thousand credits, to recover our costs and allow us a modest profit. However as I explained, this one is a special case. The others are less dear."

  "Security," Priestess cut in abruptly. "Close your mouth."

  "Yes, Lady," Dragon responded meekly.

  "Cit Samot," Priestess said, "it may tell the girl to put its clothes back on. We are not interested in purchasing this unit. Our employee has been amusing itself. We have serious business with the Sandman, and it does not concern Number Sixty-five."

  "Of course, Lady." The slimer nodded to the slave girl. She picked up her tunic and disappeared. Dragon and I watched her walk away with regret. We were pigs, I suppose. Priestess had every right to be upset.

  ###

  The Sandman was a tall, wiry Outworlder with suntanned skin and long blond hair tied behind his head with a black ribbon. He wore stylish, dead-black sungoggles and a weather-burnt field coat and sandboots that had been worn white. He moved with authority, and the slimer faded away when he approached. He had a vac gun at his waist. As he accepted a tea from a slavegirl, his eyes were invisible behind the goggles, but I knew he was checking us out. He took a sip, and slowly put down the cup.

  "Lady Arbell. We are Sandman. How may we help?"

  Nine took a copy of Whit's master file from the Reformary and passed it across the table to the Sandman. He picked it up and examined it carefully. How could he see through those goggles?

  "We believe Cit recently purchased this criminal from Tombara Reformary," Priestess said quietly. "We wish to purchase it from Cit. Our reasons are not important. But we will guarantee a higher price than anyone else."

  "If we had known this girl had so many friends," the Sandman said with a faint grin, "we would have held onto it. The people from the Reformary were here only an hour ago. Cit's running a little late."

  Priestess looked my way. We knew the warden would be doing his damndest to get Whit back, and it probably didn't matter much whether he got to her before we did. The Mask was going to get his money either way, for we needed his help to get off-planet.

  "Where is she?" Priestess asked.

  The Sandman glanced at his wristcom. "They should be pulling into Chapezi in an hour or two. We sent her on the overland route by groundcar with a shipment for the frontier. It's to be sold in the market at Chapezi. Highest bidder will get it. We've already alerted our people in Chapezi to the Reformary's interest. Shall we mention Cit as well?"

  "Please do so. We'll be there as soon as we can get there. How far is Chapezi?"

  "What is our mode of transportation, Lady?"

  "Aircar."

  "It should not take longer than four hours by aircar. Unfortunately, the Reformary people are also going by aircar."

  "Have they already left?"

  "I do believe so."

  "We'd better get moving," Priestess said to me.

  ###

  We paused at the weapons tent. It was quite a place. The proprietor was an old bearded brigand, puffing on a narcotic weed, and his three hoodlum sons tossed us the weapons we needed. The shop was a delight, piled high with exotic weaponry from a score of worlds.

  The SG's looked new. I knocked one down right away and spread the parts out on a display table.

  "Looks good," Dragon said.

  "It's new," I confirmed.

  "Our weapons are guaranteed," the brigand said, "everything works."

  "Where can we test these?" Dragon asked.

  "It's a free sky," the pirate said. "See if it can hit an aircar."

  I've always liked the SG. It's a tough weapon. We test-fired laser and v and x and flame, up into the sky, and made a hell of a racket, and nobody even blinked. The damned things worked perfectly.

  "How much?" Dragon asked.

  "Five thousand."

  "Five hundred."

  "You are joking! It is funny! These are brand new, and highly illegal! Boys—get us tea! Now!" His sons scrambled to obey.

  "We don't have time for tea," Priestess whispered to me.

  "What's the rush?" I asked. "Even if The Mask gets to her first, he's just going to sell her back to us, right?"

  "I'd rather get to her first," Priestess said, "Just to be sure."

  "We'll give it a thousand each," I told the bandit, "and we buy three."

  "All right, four thousand, because you know your weapons. And we'll throw in five fully charged x-packs, each."

  "Four thousand for the three?" I asked.

  "No, no—oh, it is funny too! No, four thousand each. My bottom price! Here, here—fresh berry tea. Have some lily crush, too—pure crush, it will put Cit into orbit."

  His sons were back already, supervising a young female slave who carried a heavy tray stacked high with elaborate silvery, steaming tea kettles, and a delicately carved wooden box full of narcotic cigarettes. Katag was certainly a man's world.

  I balanced the SG in one hand. Lord, it felt good to be armed again—really armed. I had been in a black mood because of Biergart, but the SG was whispering to me, chasing Biergart right from my mind. What a sweet, lovely weapon! Hoist an SG, and the odds are even once again. Watch out, world, Thinker is back! Gleaming cenite and armorite, laser sights glowing calm and pale, fully charged and looking for a new owner. Here was a real slave—molded to my hands. And what is an SG really worth? A million credits? Two million? No price would be too much for this lovely girl, a warm companion for a dangerous world, she'd walk with you all day and sleep with you all night. Well, I got a chill every time I touched one of those babies, E or SG, every single time. We were married for life, that much was certain. She was a cruel mistress, but I loved her all the same.

  "Please." The slave girl held out a cup of hot berry tea for me.

  "Pay him what he wants," I said to Priestess. "The old man deserves it. He's a saint!" Dragon and Priestess looked at me funny. I'll admit I get carried away on occasion.

  ###

  "Doesn't look good." I put the aircar in a flat glide to the deck. The dirt road below snaked along the bottom of a steep ravine between two ragged hills. A perfect ambush site. Thick black smoke rose out of the pass, dirtying the sky. As we approached, there were flames up ahead. Two khaki military aircars rose from the gully in swirling clouds of smoke and shot away from the site. There—burning groundcars, bodies littering the ravine. We eased along the road slowly, and I cut the jets and we settled down in a cloud of dust. Katag soldiers stood around, SG's on their hips. I cracked the door and the heat rushed in, dry and dead.

  We walked into the tragedy. Six civilian groundcars, big transports, burned fiercely, all shot up. The rocks of the gully were strewn with loot. I looked up to the slopes.
It was a harsh land, great slabs of yellow granite baking in the sun. The dead lay where they had fallen—slaver security guards in uniform, stripped of weapons and jackets and boots, frozen in death, just as inanimate as the rocks around them. And slaves, male and female, some of them burnt to death, black crisps hanging out of the groundcars, riddled with holes.

  "Scut," I said.

  "Tourists?" A Katag officer approached us frowning, dressed in camfax, his SG pointed in our general direction.

  "It's all right, Lieutenant. These three are with us." Another man, dressed in dark brown, strode through the dust. I recognized the uniform. "Lady Arbell, we are from Tombara Reformary. Bad news, we're afraid. It was the HLA that hit the convoy. Did a real job on it." He was a pale, intense, slender youth—we had never seen him before.

  "Did anyone escape?" Priestess asked.

  "Yes—they got six out of twelve groundcars. But according to the overseers, number Four Oh Four is not among the survivors. The other six cars have already arrived in Chapezi, and it's not there."

  "Have we found its body?"

  "We're still looking. If it's here, we'll find it."

  "What is the HLA?" I asked.

  "Homelands Liberation Army. It's the Originals. They're getting better and better weaponry. These cars were taken out with xmax. We can't imagine where the Originals are getting weapons like that."

  "They probably went shopping in Ostra-Bal," I muttered.

  A military aircar glided overhead. The officer was talking into a comset as a couple of troopers unwrapped a plastic photomap. One of the burning cars exploded again, sending streaks of glowing phospho shrapnel into the bright blue sky.

  "Damn!"

  "Lady Arbell!" It was the Sandman, his black goggles winking sunlight. He wore a sandy camfax cloak, and a camfax turban covered his long hair. "It's good to see Cit again."

  "We wish the circumstances were different," Nine replied.

  "Indeed," the Sandman said. "This is a dark day for the Body Shop. The HLA is getting way out of line. We've lost half our shipment. Damn!"