Legion Reborn

by K. C. Finn

  “Come in and rest, child.” Dad squeezes my shoulder.

  I follow him in, but not for his suggestion. Vinesh is lying on one of the bunks, which has a lot more space around it than those of the South Tower, throwing a ball and catching it with surprising accuracy for a blind man. He fumbles now and then, but I can see the tense lines of concentration on his proud features. Something digs deep into the core of me, and again I press it back. Back with the pressure, back with the gentle force of my father’s hand. I step out of his grip, passing my little gathering to root among the beds.

  Most things are regulation at the Legion, but I know what it’s like to come here and try to leave everything behind. I hid something when I first arrived, something that couldn’t be taken from me. I became Raja, the boy soldier, and left my girlhood behind. It stands to reason that even the toughest residents here would have some remnants of their past selves.

  “Sweetheart, won’t you sit down?” Mumma’s voice carries as I walk to the far recesses of the cabin, eyeing up the bedside lockers and turning blankets back. “You must be tired. So much has happened.”

  I hear it, the name on her lips. Malcolm. Everyone’s feeling it, the absence of his voice, his very shape among us, but nobody wants to say it. The Highland rebel leader has dropped me right into the centre of the storm he was brewing, and I’m damned if I’ll let him down. I turn a whole mattress with sudden energy, and then the next and the next, until a single envelope flutters from the underside of one. The pages are thick within it, paper from different sources and different sizes filling the worn old packet. I grasp it, tearing it a little as I search for what’s inside.

  “What on earth are you doing, sis?”

  Pranjal is at my shoulder, peering down at the scraps as I unveil them, one by one. Most of them are scribbled entries, dates and messages written in slanted script. Diaries. An excited love note here, a scrawled confession there. I skim the words, looking for anything to give me hope. A word catches my eye. A name.

  SC Briggs sucks ass. I wish Prudell would take him back to the city already.

  I rifle through, seeking again, looking for those moments of dissent I so desperately need.

  Prudell’s new P Force cadets. Auditions today. I’m not sure if I want to make it into special training. I’m safe here. Going there, into Tania, with the execution riots still in full force, it frightens the shit out of me.

  These aren’t the words of a fighter, despite the cabin location. They are still the thoughts of a child. A child who might be older than me, no matter how old I feel right now. It’s like Malcolm’s age has seeped into my bones from the moment he uttered those last thoughts to me. I don’t feel like me. I don’t feel like anything.

  “Little sister, come sit down.”

  “My girl, please.”

  Pranjal holds my shoulders, and I see the letters shaking in my hands. I shuffle the papers again, and a photograph emerges. It’s folded and wrecked, white lines of age creasing it all over. It is of a girl with a mother and a father, just her surrounded by their smiling, proud faces. My family’s voices are an echo behind me, their comforting words lost. The world is a shuddering blur. I don’t know what I’m looking for, deep in the pages of the mind of a poor child, forced to be here. Forced to face the reality of the war and the rebellion, for a world we didn’t plan and had no say in being part of.

  “I need Malcolm.”

  The words explode in a fury of tears. I’m no leader. Right now, I can’t stop the flood of heat and pain as I throw the papers down and smash myself into the mattress. My fists fly into the spongy material, catching the springs with sudden agony. Pranjal is trying to pull me back, then another set of hands join him. My father’s voice is in my ear. Vinesh shouts something in the background, unable to see fully the chaos I’m causing. I throw them off, shuddering into the upturned mattress with the papers all around me.

  My eyes land on one, its words taking shape as I blink off my tears.

  Patrol tonight. Those black things are back. Cornell calls them Reavers. He reckons he knows what they do. Creepy coffin machines, picking up dead animals and taking them away to the east. What are they for? Why do they keep combing the northern waste before the trees?

  “Rest now, child.”

  I look up, into Mumma’s eyes. She crouches down, resting a hand on my spinning brow.

  “Cornell,” I say, the words fitting from my lips. “Have to find him. He might know. The Reavers. Malcolm. He might know.”

  She rubs my cheek, slow and sure. “You won’t be fit for anything without some sleep.”

  The mattress is soft under my shaking body, and my tears have run me down, like my energy has outpoured with every drop of salt water. When my eyes close, it’s hard to open them again. I let the heavy lids fall, listening to the vague echoes of familiar voices.

  “What’s wrong with her, Dad?” Pranjal’s voice echoes.

  “Grief, son. It does different things to different people.”

  The note about the Reavers is clutched in my palm, but my fingers are losing their grip. I see them broken, just like Malcolm’s are, then it’s like they’re not part of me anymore. I’m with him, drifting off into the dark of the wasteland. Off to the east, to the place where the dead things go.

  Seven

  Morning is cruel when it comes. Someone has moved me back onto the bunk, so I guess I must have been out cold until morning light. For the briefest moment, I hear Mumma and Pranjal discussing what they can find in the canteen for breakfast, and I could almost be back home in the Underground. Until my ear twitches, and I reach to wipe the blood from it even though it’s no longer there. When I shift, the world shifts with me, the haze of half-sleep clearing to reveal a vision of the Reaver, sharp and sleek, riding away across the wasteland.

  I shoot up in bed, eyes wide.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

  Dad is already perched at my bedside. His worn face is smiling, though the corners look pulled and strained. He pats my knee, catching my gaze. I take a few breaths.

  “You’re in shock. You have to let it pass.”

  “There’s too much to do, Dad.”

  I throw the covers off, finding my legs bare, and look around for my fatigues. The black combats and striped over-jacket are nowhere to be seen, so I round the bed and forage in the nearest locker for a set of regulation Legion kit. Whoever used to use this bed isn’t my size, but it doesn’t matter. The clothes will hang well enough. Dad’s mouth is open a little, watching me with silent eyes. Mumma’s chatter has quieted. I pause, one leg in my trousers, eyeing them all.

  “I know,” I say. “I know I’m in shock, or something like it. I don’t feel… right. But we’ve got hundreds of kids locked up here, and a Reborn who was already a psycho before they augmented him. And a war. If you want to help me, then help me. But don’t tell me to rest.”

  I resume getting dressed, the words sinking into the atmosphere like a fug of smoke. It slows us down, my little depleted family. Vinesh is lying in bed with the covers up to his ears. I thought he was still sleeping at a glance, but now he speaks.

  “So what do you need, Raja?”

  I roll a sweater over my head, pushing back my tufty, spiky hair. This morning, I’ve promised to release any legionnaires who don’t want to be here. This morning, I need to know how Apryl is doing unlocking the connection between Briggs and the System. This morning, I have to do what Malcolm would, to restore order to the hundred or so other rebels who must be feeling his loss like I am. My stomach growls, kicking at my insides.

  “Vinesh, you can radio out. Call a meeting for the usual team leaders to co-ordinate today. Mumma, if you and Pranjal want to bring some breakfast to the meeting, that would help. I expect the other crew can find their way around the canteens. Those kids in the Bastion need something too, but it’ll have to be plain ration packets, stuff they can eat cold. Dad, you can supervise that, and make sure you have plenty of guards at the doors. I can
’t take a rush of rebellious teens trying to get out on top of everything else.”

  They nod, all of them. Vinesh is out of bed and scrambling to find his bag and radio. Mumma and Pranjal half-drag my father from the cabin, something stern whispered in his ear. Vinesh makes the call, just as I asked, and by the time I’m suited and booted for action, I find him laughing. His pale eyes roll to the low ceiling as he reclines, the radio in his lap.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Those two,” he chuckles back.

  I bite my lip a moment, then let out a sigh. “They think I can’t handle this.”

  “Well, of course you can’t.”

  I glare at Vinesh, though he can’t see me doing it. He holds up his palms, still grinning that stupidly optimistic grin of his.

  “And neither could Malcolm,” he adds. “No-one can handle this. But we do what we have to, when life throws it at us. I would have told you I couldn’t handle being blind a couple of months ago. Now, here I am.”

  He reaches out a hand and I go to him, taking hold of it tightly. He yanks on me, pulling himself to his feet.

  “Can you get me something clean to wear? I’ll come with you to the meeting.”

  “Sure.” I start to look through more lockers to find something to fit Vinesh’s broad frame. “Where did you ask them to convene?”

  “Well they’ve been up half the night interrogating the office staff, so we’ll meet them at the computer lab.”

  I blink. “The office.” It’s not a question. I hadn’t even thought about the clerical staff who work here too. There must be around twenty of them, up in the computer suite that I once broke into using Sheila’s password. Of course, Kip and Apryl would have thought to get that covered. They’ve got Briggs there too, restrained in his own private quarters. The thought of information riles my empty gut. It rocks this time with a different kind of hunger. It’s time to do what we came here for in the first place, and put this war to an end.

  *

  “We’ve been watching the propaganda channels coming in from the System, and there’s no mention at all of Prudell having captured or killed Malcolm.” Apryl speaks through a mouthful of pancakes, turning to Mumma to get some more. “Jesus Bandhula these are good, I didn’t know the Legion even had real food like this.”

  Mumma smiles at that.

  “We found them in a section marked ‘Staff Only’,” Pranjal chips in.

  The spread is impressive, and it keeps coming in waves. I’ve already filled myself with stodge, and Apryl’s news adds a new layer to the full, satisfied feeling in my body.

  “That’s good.” I give her a nod. “If Malcolm made it to the Reaver labs alive, they might not have realised that it’s him they have yet. They might even rebuild him.”

  “Do you think that was his plan?” Kip asks, leaning forward at the table.

  The Westie hasn’t eaten a thing, and his fuzzy jaw looks more gaunt than ever. Apryl gorges right beside him, sighing, and he pushes his plate towards her.

  Somewhere in my mini meltdown last night, there were scraps of information. Cornell. The boy who knows something about the Reavers. How they visit the Legion in the night.

  “It’s possible that Malcolm knew that there were Reavers in the area. Perhaps Sheila passed-”

  I pause, looking over the table. Goddie’s here, with Apryl and Kip. Vinesh is by my side, Mumma and Pranjal are fetching more food, and we’re joined by Andrew and Mia, the two most prominent of the Highlander’s team leaders.

  “Where is Sheila?” I ask.

  “With Stirling,” Goddie replies.

  Of course. I bow my head a little, looking at the small computer desk we’re all crammed around. Sheila hasn’t seen her son since the day she was ransomed back to Prudell. Malcolm had never told her of his augmentation, the new legs and the near-death that her little boy went through. I feel cold to my core at the first thought that comes to my head, but it’s the one I voice anyway.

  “She’s been briefed on not passing him intel, right?”

  Everyone nods.

  Goddie’s bruise shines by the dim reflections of the computer monitors. He raises a hand when our eyes meet, covering his cheekbone. I put my palms flat on the table, fingers tapping.

  “Someone needs to talk to her about the Reaver issue later on. Goddie?”

  “Can do, boss.” He winks at me.

  “So…. Progression with Briggs. Apryl?”

  She makes me wait, swallowing a syrupy mouthful. “Honestly… I think you need to talk to him, Raja.”

  It’s certainly not the thing I most want in the world, although there’s a certain appeal in seeing the SC in chains.

  “Why me?” I ask.

  “You’re the one who received the messages from the heart of the System. If you talk to him, and something comes through, it might help me to work out how the takeover happens. So far, all of the programming added to Briggs just helps him to operate his new battle features. His brain is his own, unfortunately.”

  I nod. “Count me in for an interrogation, right after we send the kids home.”

  “I heard you gave a pretty bleak pep talk,” Kip says. “Maybe they’ll want to stay?”

  Before I can get a half-hearted ‘maybe’ past my lips, there’s a crackle on the radio. A rush of energy shoots through me, riling every nerve and setting my limbs alight. The last time the crackle came, Sheila sent us the worst news we could have hoped for. Now, I’m surprised to hear Stirling on the line.

  “Raja, we have a problem at the perimeter, do you copy?”

  Vinesh holds his radio close to my mouth. The others are sourcing theirs too, their bodies tensed up.

  “I’m here. What’s happening?”

  “The System’s reacting. Scores of units in the wasteland. I think we’re about to be under siege.”

  Apryl rushes to the nearest machine, typing and touching the screen with furious precision. She spins the monitor towards us, revealing a security camera that’s trained on the scenery. It must be the feed from the roof of the Bastion, and with another tap she pans the camera to and fro, showing us the extent of Stirling’s report. He’s right. Tons of units have marched on us since our breakthrough last night, maybe twenty on either side. Squadrons of foot soldiers are pounding out of jeeps, followed by trucks with heavy guns and even a tank or two.

  But not one of them has engaged in any kind of attack. Unlike us, they’re not marching to the wall with hooks or setting up railguns to break down our defences. The System’s forces wait, patient and still, keeping a perimeter maybe a thousand feet away from the Legion itself.

  “Well, shit.” Goddie says, his voice deep and dark.

  “No,” I reply, with a gentle shake of my head. “It’s no attack force. At least, not yet. Stirling called it a siege. They want something in here, or else they’d be massacring us already.”

  “What could they want?” Kip asks.

  I turn to the table, all eyes on me. Their collective focus hits me like a jet of water, but for now I’m able to stand it. I even manage a smile.

  “Whatever it is, they’re afraid to damage it by force. We must be sitting on a valuable resource. Until we know what it is, we keep them waiting.”

  Eight

  The morning’s operation goes ahead as planned, except for the two dozen rebels we post to monitor the perimeter, as well as the cameras in the office. At the Bastion, those wishing to leave the Legion must agree to be bound at the wrists, a small acquiescence for them to walk free. We’re losing about three hundred of the kids, which is less than I’d have thought. I don’t know if the others simply figure they’re safer as prisoners of war than asylum seekers, or whether they genuinely want to join the cause, but I’m grateful for the extra numbers that are employed to clean up after the battle.

  At the front gates, where the battlements give way to the corrugated entryway where new recruits are vetted and interviewed, a reverse of the old process is taking place. At the very exit, as ea
ch kid passes through on their way to the outside world, we ask a simple question.

  “Name?”

  A small girl blinks at me. “Bianca.”

  I nod. She goes by.

  Around me, Andrew, Goddie and Dad are busy asking the same thing, looking for the one name we need amongst the bunch.

  “Name?”

  “Mimi.”

  “Name?”

  “Felix.”

  “Name?”

  “Esteban.”

  “Name?”

  “Not giving it to you, queer.”

  The answer is given to Goddie’s question. I pause my line, my head snapping in their direction at the next doorway. Goddie steps up to a boy about his own age, grabbing him by his bound hands and throwing him back against the wall. Goddie lifts his hefty, titanium leg, bringing the weight down to rest menacingly over the lad’s shin bone. It must be hurting him already, the way the boy’s eyes water.

  “You don’t go anywhere with dat attitude, boy.”

  Goddie keeps the line moving, asking the next recruit, and the next, and all the while the one who called him a queer fumbles and shifts to try and get his leg free without snapping his own shin in two. He calls Goddie by his name, and I know this teen must be one of the ones Goddie knew before he became a Reject. Before his fluid sexuality was discovered and his reputation as a strong member of the Legion was destroyed.

  I have to wonder what made him stay. Before he was outed, Goddie was fully accepted and fully into the regime here. He’s spoken before about his family, his many brothers and sisters and how they, like so many others, were starving and struggling outside the System’s walls as they tried to farm the Westlands. There’s a tightness around his eyes when he eventually lets the noisy boy back up. He points his gun at the other lad’s guts.

  “Now, we try again. Name?”

  “Cornell,” the boy spits.

  “Dat’s a match,” Goddie says with a grin. “I thought I recognised dat busted face.”