Firemask: Book Two of the Last Legion Series

by Chris Bunch

“Overall … the Musth are almost as flipping good at lying as I am,” Hedley said.

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” Rao said.

  • • •

  “More flowers?” Jasith asked.

  “Indeed,” the nurse said, and examined them critically. “I quite think they’re the loveliest yet. No doubt encouraging you to get off your cute little heinie, pay your bill, go home, and leave us alone.”

  “Merle, that isn’t very nursely.”

  “And what made you the judge of nurseliness?” the young man asked.

  Jasith grinned. “Like you said, I’m paying the bills.”

  “If you want to be that way about it … your husband called, and he’ll be about an hour late. Council meeting with our furry friends from beyond.”

  “Only an hour. Practically early for Loy,” Jasith said.

  “Now, now,” Merle said. “By the way, a bit of under-the-stretcher information. Your doctor thinks the infection’s finally been knocked down, so you should get out of here in the next day or two.”

  “If you want a kiss,” Jasith said fervently, “you have only to ask.”

  “Not quite my style,” Merle said. “Besides, I don’t believe him. Whatever strange rot you picked up going swimming out there’s probably still with you. And I watch my health.”

  “Why don’t you go find me some fruit juice,” Jasith said. “And slip about three fingers of alk in it?”

  “And then drink it myself,” the nurse said, put the elaborate arrangement on one of the long tables in the suite, already looking like a botanical garden, and walked out.

  Jasith looked at the arrangement, decided Merle was possibly right and it was the prettiest, and opened the card.

  Best,

  Garvin

  Jasith Mellusin grimaced, crumpled the card, and tossed it into the trash.

  She went to the window, looked down at Leggett, then across the bay to Chance Island, dim in the morning mist.

  Two of the strange, frightening Musth fighting ships smashed over the city, then climbed sharply toward a mother ship hovering high overhead. Even through the insulated windows Jasith heard the snap-crack of the sonic booms.

  She stayed at the window for a long time, then came back, picked Garvin’s card from the trash, carefully smoothed it, and put it in a safe place.

  • • •

  Alikhan, Wlencing’s cub, eyed the three aksai parked beside one of the taxiways at Camp Mahan’s landing field.

  “All three of these can fly?” he asked the officer beside him, a human almost as big as the Musth.

  “Yes. Two fly well, the other’s a limper … sorry, a cripple,” Alt Dill said.

  “I see.” Again, Alikhan looked at the aksai. “These are the ones that were flown against the invaders?”

  “That’s right,” Ben said, hoping the Musth weren’t able to see through a liar as transparent as he was.

  “That is remarkable,” Alikhan said. “I would never have expected aircraft in such condition to be capable of fighting, maneuvering.”

  “It was interesting,” Dill said, for once telling the truth.

  “You were one of the pilots?”

  “I was.”

  “Who was the one who killed the patrol ships?”

  “I hit one, my wingman … that’s one of the men who flies beside me and keeps me from being attacked from the rear … got another.

  “I missed the Corfe … that’s Alena Redruth’s flagship.” Dill knew he was talking too much.

  “So you have a kill,” Alikhan said. “I have not been that fortunate.”

  “I hope,” Dill said, “you remain unfortunate, as long as you stay in this system.”

  Alikhan’s mouth came open, and he hissed from the back of his throat, sounding like an enraged cat, and Dill stepped back, hand touching his pistol, then realized the sound must denote amusement.

  “You are most clever,” the Musth said.

  “Thanks. Sorry for misunderstanding … I haven’t been around you people very much.”

  “Nor have I.”

  “How did you learn to speak our Common Speech so well?” Dill asked. “The few Musth I’ve been around sometimes are hard to understand.”

  “You mean we sound like an air leak?”

  “I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”

  “The one who taught me to speak Basic, a most harsh taskmaster, did.”

  Dill grinned. “What do we sound like, talking Musth?”

  “No one knows,” Alikhan said. “None of you have ever succeeded in learning the language.”

  Dill, laughing, didn’t see Alikhan’s hand touch his projector, waiting for the reaction. Alikhan took his hand away, allowing his own amusement to show.

  “I’d ask you back to the officers’ club for a drink,” Dill said. “But I don’t think you drink alcohol.”

  “We do not,” Alikhan said. “I learned about your habits, shudder to think of some. Nor would you like what we consume for relaxation.”

  “Which is?”

  “Meat that has been allowed to decay for a time, with various spices.”

  “Mmmh,” Dill said. “We do that, but cook it first.”

  “Thus ruining all the savor.”

  “It’s a pity,” Dill said, changing the subject, “your leaders wouldn’t let us keep these ships. It would be interesting to fight mock-war against each other, with the same equipment.”

  “It would,” Alikhan agreed. “But perhaps it would be inappropriate for such a rehearsal.”

  Dill looked at him carefully.

  “Are you sure that was the word you meant to use?”

  “Certainly,” Alikhan said. “For what else can happen but war? Whether you or I wish it is immaterial.”

  Dill considered him thoughtfully.

  “I’ve noticed that people who decide there’s gonna be a fight generally produce one. The problem is, it doesn’t come out the way they’ve figured, all the time.”

  Caud Rao decided to wait to bring the regiments back to Chance Island until the Musth brought it up again.

  But they didn’t for more than two weeks, and Rao couldn’t decide if that was good or bad. Were the Musth forgetful, or didn’t they take RaoForce that seriously?

  • • •

  Garvin whistled cheerily into the BOQ suite he shared with Njangu, took a moment to realize Yoshitaro was staring, as if hypnotized, at the com screen. There was an image frozen on it.

  “Whassup?”

  “Look,” Njangu managed.

  Garvin looked at the screen.

  “Who they?”

  “You uneddicated oaf, that’s the Planetary Council.”

  “I would’ve guessed a bunch of fat thieves.”

  “That too.”

  “So what?”

  Njangu manipulated controls, came in on one person. Garvin looked closely at it.

  “Hey! That’s … what the hell was her name? The ‘Raum who was The Movement’s intel chief when we were playing covert? The one you cut a skate on at the end and told her to get lost?”

  “Jo Poynton,” Njangu said. “That’s her. I thought it was a cover name, like most of them used. But if it was, she’s using the same one now.”

  “And she’s on the Council?” Garvin was incredulous.

  “Why not? The war’s over,” Yoshitaro said cynically, “and all wounds are healed up ickle and pretty.”

  “But she was their main spymaster, part of the main rebel command, what’d they call it, the Planning Group!”

  “Guess that proves cream rises to the top.”

  “But how come nobody tattled her to the journohs? That idiot Kouro’d be happy to call her all kinds of sons of bitches if he knew.”

  “Maybe,” Njangu said, “the only entry that’s still around is in our archives. I’d guess that when PlanGov got blown up, all of Policy and Analysis files got naturally shredded, along with the shitheads that tortured the info out of people.”

  “So
what are we going to do about it?”

  Njangu shrugged. “I guess nothing.”

  Garvin looked carefully at his executive officer.

  “Weren’t you and her, uh …”

  “Uh is the way to put it.”

  “You gonna ring her up?”

  “And say what?”

  “Hell if I know,” Garvin said. “I got my own problems.”

  Njangu eyed Jaansma.

  “I didn’t get it before, but you are a little too goddamned happy. For why?”

  “Well,” Garvin said, sounding a little guilty, “I just sent some flowers out.”

  “Ali with his beard on fire,” Njangu swore. “Don’t you ever give up? She’s a married woman, remember?”

  “I know,” Garvin said, and Njangu realized the conversation had just come to an end.

  “ ‘Kay,” he said. “Forget it.” He picked up a message slip from his desk, sailed it across to Garvin. “Better you think about this.”

  “What is it?”

  “The Leeat Islands,” Njangu said. “Bunch of little islands way to hell and gone. They got problems with pirates.”

  “Yeh, right, pirates.”

  “Truth, or anyway they swear to it,” Njangu said. “Ex-’Raum that didn’t want to go back to making a semihonest living, so they’re out there poaching on the local fisher folk. Not a very nice bunch of people, it looks like, since nobody’s come back with details.

  “The cops can’t seem to do anything, since the baddies have good skinny from the locals. Every time they go out looking, there’s nobody but innocents.”

  “So, naturally,” Garvin said, “they want us to handle the rough work.”

  “You rather sit around here and worry about the Musth?”

  “Good point,” Garvin agreed. “What do we know about these pirates?”

  “Not a whole helluva lot. Boats just flat disappear. No bodies, nothing. The best intel is from little bits somebody hollers on the Mayday freq before they vanish.

  “I’d guess they kill the fishermen, shake the boats for anything valuable, then either sink them or maybe run them back to wherever they’re based. A quick paint job and back to sea as Fishing Boat Justlaunched. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve got spies out in some of the fishing villages to tip ‘em to the best cargoes to grab. And that’s the sum total of what I’ve got. Somewhat less than nothing.”

  “You got maps and such so we can at least start figuring how we’re going to flounder around?” Garvin asked.

  “Would I be the evil genius of the Legion if I didn’t?”

  • • •

  “Well I shall be dipped,” Njangu said. “I thought you were frigging dead!”

  “I was,” Finf Ton Milot said wryly. “But then I realized I was hurting too bad. The bastards clipped me in the arm, leg. Damned near lost the leg, and I’ve got about a meter of synthbone in it.”

  “You know they gave Hank Faull the Star of Gallantry,” Yoshitaro said. Milot had been wounded, Hank Faull killed in the final battle of the ‘Raum uprising, securing the Eckmuhl.

  “Yeh,” Milot said flatly. “Bet that made his widow feel real good and puts lots of rations on his kids’ plates.”

  “So what’re you doing still in uniform?”

  Milot looked away.

  “Goddamned if I know,” he said. “If I’d had a brain, I would’ve taken the wound pension and gone fishing. Instead …” He let his voice trail off.

  “Hey,” he went on. “Aren’t I supposed to salute you or something now you’re a highborn aspirant?”

  “Bite me,” Njangu said. “A proper banging of the head on the floor’s enough.”

  “Wish in one hand, shit in the other, see which one fills up first,” Milot said.

  “Nice to see you haven’t changed. Welcome back to I&R. I assume you can still carry the load.”

  “Either that or whip up on some ‘cruit to do it for me,” Milot said. “By the way, did you know Lupul and I got married?”

  “Congrats,” Njangu said. “Whyn’t you invite me to the wedding?”

  “It was sort of a flash idea,” Milot said. “Fact was, well, I was sort of talking to Deira. You remember her?”

  Njangu did. He’d taken a pass with Milot to the small fishing village of Issus after they’d graduated from I&R training, and ended up in a threesome with fellow striker Angie Rada and the sixteen-year-old girl.

  “Well, Lupul got the wrong idea.” Milot grinned thoughtfully. “Or maybe the right idea. So she said it was time for me to either stay a merry bachelor and she hoped my cock rotted off, or else.

  “I thought about it for, oh, a second and a half, realized I couldn’t do any better than Lupul, and so we just up and did it. Colorful fisherman’s custom on a boat and that kind of thing.

  “Deira asked about you, by the way.”

  “It never rains …” Njangu muttered, thinking of Jo Poynton.

  “Maybe you want to come over to Issus with me sometime,” Milot offered. “That is, if it’s not illegal for an officer to do something with one of us enlisted swine.”

  “We’ll do it,” Njangu promised absently. An idea was pulling at him. “Ton, do you suppose you could borrow a fishing boat from one of your friends?”

  “Not borrow, but rent. Fishermen gotta make a credit somewhere. And if you want it officially, I’d guess there might be some bullet holes to patch up when it comes back. Plus we could hire my brother to help run it. You remember Alei … that was his boat you fell off of, the time we went fishing and you ended up as bait.”

  “Let me ask you something,” Njangu said. “First, you can forget about that fishing trip we went on anytime you want to. You know of the Leeat Islands?”

  “A little bit,” Milot said. “A bunch of islands way to hell and gone other side of Cumbre, isn’t it? Never fished there, but I know some people who did. Contract work. Fly over, work a season, come back. They did ‘kay. Didn’t get rich, but had some good stories to tell. Big fish in those parts.”

  “I’ll want to talk to them,” Yoshitaro said. “Because we’re thinking about going for the biggest fish on the planet.”

  Milot flickered his eyebrows.

  “Good, boss. Very good story. Glad there’s no other reason you want to visit my village.”

  “Goddammit, I’m telling the truth.”

  “No question about that, boss. Good truth, too, huh?”

  • • •

  “I think,” Njangu said comfortably, “this is the sneakiest plan I’ve ever come up with.”

  “Possibly,” Garvin agreed. “And don’t get a swole head, but it might even accidentally work.”

  “So reward your fearless, peerless executive officer and open me a beer. I’m the poor sod who had to go spend the last two days in that backwater of Issus talking to fishermen to make sure my idea’d work.”

  “I don’t guess,” Garvin said, “busy as you were, you found time to talk a walk in the moonlight with anybody?”

  “Goddammit,” Njangu snarled, “does everybody know everything about my love life? And whether or not I did is none of your bidness. Now, boss, can I have my frigging beer?”

  Garvin obliged, got another for himself, and examined the holo-projection table again.

  “Lift the sucker in here,” he muttered. “A day’s sail from most of the activity … fish our way to here … and the py-rates hopefully jump out at us somewhere along the way and get shortened by a neck. Yer right, Yoshitaro. I don’t see anything that can go wrong.”

  There was a tap at the door.

  “Whozat?”

  “Lir,” the first tweg said. “With a guest.”

  “What kind of security clearance he or she got?”

  “Higher one than you flipping do,” Hedley said, pushing his way into the company commander’s office. “Are you two through plotting your villainy?”

  “Pretty close, Jon,” Hedley said. “You want a quick brief?”

  “After I give you a
small addition. Nothing that’ll worry you.”

  “Uh-oh,” Njangu said.

  “We’re listening,” Jaansma said suspiciously.

  “Some observers want to come along.”

  “Boss,” Garvin said, “come on! This is a for-real covert operation, dammit! We aren’t gonna have any place for a straphanger who maybe wants to see what a loud bang looks like up close.”

  “Three straphangers to be precise,” Hedley said.

  “Goddamned wonderful,” Njangu said. “Can’t you tell ‘em to pack their asses with salt and piss up a rope?”

  “Nope,” Hedley said, holding back a grin.

  “Ho-kay,” Garvin said. “So which one of the PlanGov twits has enough clout to shove themselves down our throats, and why?”

  “Why is easiest,” Hedley said. “Our observers want to see the way we operate for real, not some kind of training exercise, and I&R’s currently the only game in town. As for the who … it ain’t flipping PlanGov.”

  “Uh-oh twice,” Njangu said again.

  “Make it thrice,” Hedley said. “Your observers, who as you correctly guessed, didn’t ask but told, are a being named Wlencing and two of his aides.”

  “Aw fiddle,” Njangu said, collapsing back into his chair. “Howinhell are we gonna pack three frigging Musth on a fishing boat and look inconspicuous?”

  “Damfino,” Garvin said. “But you’re the specialist in being sneaky.”

  “Maybe one of them could be a figurehead on your boat?” Hedley suggested, and Njangu gave him a look of pure hatred.

  • • •

  The dockyard heavy lifter had been beefed up with extra fuel cells, its antigrav units carefully inspected. Predawn, with a two-person crew from the Legion, it slid out of Leggett’s commercial dockyards into the bay, then headed east, toward the end of the peninsula. Around midday, it rounded the point, and just before dusk landed at a beach beyond Issus.

  Waiting was a careened twenty-meter fishing craft, the Urumchi Darling, less lifter than a boat, intended for long sea trips, where constant use of the antigravs would be cost-prohibitive. It pretty much matched the lines of the Leeat Islanders’ boats. It’d been rented from one of the Issus fishermen. With it went Ton Milot’s brother, Alei, as promised. He was only slightly more expensive to rent than the boat.

  Alei had been warned it could get dangerous, but he shrugged and said no more so than a good typhoon, and wouldn’t last as long, either.