***
It turned out Z2 was on a planet. They wouldn't tell me the name. When the shuttle doors popped open downside, I was hustled into an aircar and driven to my appointment. It was the middle of the night and it was cold out there. The ground was covered with snow that glittered under an icy, starry sky. We passed over great forests, massive trees that had never been cut, a primeval wilderness—and then the car dipped down past the snowy branches and we were in a vast Legion hive, perfectly camfaxed, perfectly organized.
After the usual security nonsense in the aircar bunker, a young trooper accompanied me along an exterior walkway marked with faintly luminous footlights. It was icy cold but the air was still.
"The Director's here," my escort said, flashing me a smile over his shoulder. He was dressed in spotless blacks.
"The Director of what?"
"The Director—of ConFree," he whispered conspiratorially. "He spends a lot of time here—running the war."
I didn't reply. I guess I must have been insane by then. Everybody becomes crazy sooner or later in the Legion, and I was well on my way. We had been through a lot on Pherdos. We had seen a lot. I considered it due only to Dragon's tactical genius that only one of us had been killed. It was a long, grisly campaign, and we spent much of it behind Systie lines, surviving on what we could steal. We killed hundreds of the enemy. We were bathed in blood, but it wasn't red blood. Most of them were biogens. A lot of them were girls—incredibly beautiful, incredibly tough girls, whose only mission was the extermination of Legion soldiers. And the only way to stop them was to kill them. It did something to me, every time I killed a girl. To me, they weren't biogens. They were lovely little angels who should have been loved, and comforted, and cared for when they cried. But instead, I had to kill them.
"Starcom ops is in here," my escort said. We entered a formidable bunker past blast doors guarded by a single trooper in full armor, and down a gloomy interior corridor lined with armored doors. It appeared completely deserted. I imagined everyone was asleep at that hour. Our boots echoed harshly off metallic walls. A blast door hissed open almost soundlessly, revealing a vast room lit only by scores of flickering d-screens, twinkling holo starmaps and cold green stratmaps. We stepped in.
"Chief Starcom Ops is right over there," the trooper said, gesturing into the dark. "Report back when you need transport." And he turned and left, leaving me alone as my eyes adjusted to what appeared to be a deserted room. Finally I made out a figure sitting in the dark and I approached.
It was Tara, slumped in an airchair before a wall full of d-screens, sound asleep. There was nobody else in sight. Her face was grey, eyes closed, brow furrowed, breath shallow, fingers twitching faintly. Still beautiful, that wondrous beauty from another dimension. But very tired. A single silver star was set into one collar of her blacks. A general. They had made her a general. The Legion certainly recognized talent, and Tara had that. In addition, she was certifiably insane. That was another of the requirements.
"Tara," I said gently. "Wake up."
She snapped awake instantly, startled, looking around wildly, gaping at me, stunned. "Wester! Deadman—how long have I been out? Oh my God, it's 0420!"
"It's all right, Tara—nobody's attacking us."
She stood, wobbly, and shook her head, silky hair rushing over her shoulders. "I'm sorry, Wester—welcome to Z2! Sleep—it's like a disease. I wish we could do without it."
"Are you guarding the whole galaxy by yourself, Tara?"
"No—no. We're short-handed. You don't look so good, Wester. Don't you have a coldcoat? It's cold out there!"
"You don't look so good yourself, Tara. No—all I've got is my camfax. So here I am. I knew it was you. Please tell me what you want. I'd like to do whatever it is you want me to do, and then get back to my squad."
She looked at me sadly, and resumed her seat. "You'll get to see your squad, Wester, but you may not like the circumstances. Pull up a chair. I want to show you a Systie propaganda flick." She reached out to her desk and a holovid snapped into vivid colors up on the wall. Golden letters in an alien alphabet marched across the foreground. Eerie martial music stirred my blood. A red sun arose from a sea of blood to illuminate a red-gold city. Thousands of people were marching together along wide avenues, under crimson banners, converging on a great stadium. We could see it all from the air. Phalanxes of lovely girls marched into the stadium in perfect order, singing heavenly songs. The camera rushed over their ranks—sparkling eyes, rosy cheeks, long clean hair, dazzling smiles, waving banners of red and gold.
An aircar approached out of the dawn, gleaming red in the sunrise. Its shadow passed over the marching hosts below. They looked up, pointing to the aircar.
The stadium was full. Hundreds of soldiers in gleaming golden A-suits lined the speakers' rostrum, SG's at their chests. Banners with arcane symbols rippled on the wind. The music built to a crescendo. Thousands of children in identical uniforms peered expectantly forward, hushed into silence.
He appeared behind an imposing lectern on the rostrum, a single man, master of all before him, clad in khaki. He raised a hand. The stadium erupted, a shattering roar that did not end. The camera rushed over the audience—enraptured, ecstatic, transfixed, adoring young faces, their eyes shining with love and faith.
He spoke. He gestured, he pointed, he appealed to the heavens. Who knows what he said? Who cared? They loved it. The applause washed over him like waves on a beach. His words hammered at them like stakes driven into their hearts. They listened, stunned, eager to understand, accepting it all without question, tears in their eyes, brimming with a fanatic, mindless faith.
When he finished, the audience erupted again. A delegation of little children burst forth from the crowd and performed a frantic, mindless dance to drums and brass, each child whirling a stick with a crimson banner around in circles, snapping it back and forth, up and down, all in time. And the faces of the children were gleaming with blind trust in their God, and in themselves. It was as if they were hypnotized. They knew, under His leadership, the Future was theirs.
When the holo faded darkness returned to the room. Tara sighed.
"Nice flick," I said. "Who's the gang leader?"
"The gang leader," Tara replied, "is Kenton Cotter-Arc. And your mission is to kill him. Come on. I want to introduce you to someone."
***
"Captain Thinker." The Director's icy blue eyes cut right into my soul. "Tara has briefed me on your background." I had seen him before only on the news. The last time he had been declaring war on the Systies. He looked younger in person and—harder.
"Sir!" I remained at attention. We were in a vast, darkened dome—the War Room, Tara had called it. Batteries of d-screens and tacmaps on low power were barely visible in the gloom, scattered around the room. The Director was all in black, with a single silver insignia visible—the Combat Cross. Tara had introduced me almost in a whisper. The War Room appeared empty except for the three of us. The Director was leaning over a stratmap when we entered. It was cold in the room, I realized—almost like outside.
"At ease, trooper. Tara, thank you. Give us a few moments."
"Yes sir." She faded into the dark, leaving me alone and paralyzed before the Director. My heart was pounding. The Director was a man of considerable mystery. He had appeared, almost as if from nowhere, right when the Legion needed him most, to step into the void left by Cotter-Arc's treacherous defection. His warname was Iceman. His background was typical Legion. Everyone he had known and loved had been annihilated by the Systies and the O's. And now, having nothing, he inherited the war. A man with no soul, a man with a dead heart, a man with no future, a man who did not sleep, who could feel no human emotion except the burning desire to avenge himself upon his enemies. I could see myself in his cold eyes. He was the perfect Legion immortal. Hardly human, incredibly brilliant, never tiring, driven to superhuman efforts—he was just what we needed. I didn't know how much of the story to believe, but he sure sounded like the answe
r to our fevered prayers.
"You did Mongera," he said. It sounded like an accusation. "You gave us the O. Then the Ship. Then the Star. And then the D-neg, and the time-drive. You thought it up, and you did it. And then you went and got us the Xeno-A, and stopped the plague." His eyes were glowing. It made me uneasy.
"No sir. Tara thought up the D-neg. And the mission to Plane Prime. I was just…"
"You rescued that squad on Mongera. Beta. You disobeyed a direct order, and you did that time jump, and you rescued that squad."
"Yes sir."
"My personal congratulations, Trooper. It's people like you who keep my faith alive!" He reached out and clasped my hand with both of his in a firm, cold grip. I was so startled I did not know what to say.
"You've come from Pherdos." He went back to his stratmap.
"Yes sir."
"Tell me about it." Pherdos came to life on the stratmap—the whole planet, glittering with Legion and DefCorps units, bases, ZA's, fronts, targets, campaigns, and the glowing ruins of former battlegrounds.
I told him. I told him everything—the easy victories, the horrific defeats, the slaughter of innocent civilians by the Systies, the annihilation of entire cities, the antimat sky, driving us to the edge of madness and beyond. The pointless attacks by biogen hordes, chopped to bits by our E's. The stupid valor, the stupid deaths, and the dying for the dead. Our closest comrades, shredded by the lasers. Flash, standing and advancing, when Psycho and Dragon were in peril. Walking right into the laser field, as I screamed frantically for him to come back. Come back, come back…he had advanced bravely to his death. And Psycho and Dragon had escaped. Vengeance, on our enemies. White blood, spurting. A Systie, caught and torn apart. Freezing nights, with murderous spheres and camfaxed snakes drifting through the dark, looking for the appropriate genetic material. Survival—twitching in the mud. Victory—and death.
He listened to it all patiently, nodding slightly from time to time. He knew. He had been there.
"Pherdos Command declared the planet secure early this morning," he informed me. "A victory—for the books." He knew it wasn't really a victory, for anyone who had been there. But it was an ending, at least. I sighed, to hear the news. Priestess would survive. Good. That was good.
"He's a madman, you know," the director said. "Cotter-Arc. We are all mad, I suppose, but he's gone—over the edge. I knew him in the old days, I know how he thinks. He's decided to pull the temple down around him. He decided that long ago. He knows the System is doomed. This is his final act—his legacy, his Armageddon. He wants the whole galaxy to go down in flames, all around him. We don't appreciate him—so we die. That's all he wants."
I was silent.
"Come here," he said, walking into the darkness. I followed. The dome lit up with stars, a galaxy of diamond dust, glowing golden nebulae, swirling magical rivers of milky jewels, glittering in the velvet dark like a million microscopic fireflies.
"There's the Outvac," the Director said, flicking a thin red laser pointer into the void. The stars were reflected in his empty eyes. "The Gassies are over here. We're landing on those worlds—the ones in yellow are still contested. The greens are taken. You can see there's a lot to do—but it has to be done."
He whispered something, and the stars whirled dizzily around us, then stabilized. "The Inners—the heart of the System. And here, DemFed, and the Hyades." It was a fearful infinity of red stars, glowing like blood. "We're hoping the Mocains will abandon the System and conclude a separate truce with us. We'd welcome it. But if they don't—we fight to the end. They know it." I nodded, resigned to whatever the future would bring. Twenty years, I thought. Thirty years, to take all those planets.
"We know where Cotter-Arc is. If you can kill him, you may save the lives of millions. It could be a long war. Or—if he dies—it could be shorter."
"Yes."
"Kill him. I don't care how. It's not going to be easy, for he is well protected. But you will have the resources of all of ConFree and the Legion behind you."
"Yes sir."
"If you can do this, you will change history."
"Yes sir"
"It will be an act of…deicide…to kill Satan. For that's who he is. He's Satan."
"Yes sir."
A wide panel along one wall was faintly glowing. I suddenly realized it was the dawn, a pale cold light seeping in through an open window port. No wonder it was cold—the window ports were open to the night. Wide open. The faint light illuminated the director's face. Still young, it seemed—until you looked into the eyes. They were cold and bottomless. A void.
"Promise me you'll do it—for ConFree," he whispered, grasping my right hand firmly in both of his. My heart was pounding. Kill a God? And who was the director—but another God?
"I'll do it," I replied quietly, "but not for ConFree. I fought ConFree."
"So did I. That wasn't ConFree—that was Satan. That was Cotter-Arc. But we've got ConFree back now, the genuine article. The ConFree Constitution, written in blood, by free men. Justice, over all—and the death of tyrants. The death of tyrants!"
"I'll do it. I'll kill him. But it will be for the Legion." And for myself, I thought.
"For the Legion. Good. We kill Satan—right in the heart of Hell. Make certain he knows it's the Legion. I want him to see me in your eyes when he dies."
My blood ran ice cold in my veins and my skin prickled with horror, as the director maintained his death grip on my hand. I brought my free hand up and placed it gently over his.
"To the death," I whispered. A shooting star, I thought—that's me. Going out in a blaze of glory.
He withdrew one hand, and traced the cross of the Legion in the air, right over my face.
"Bless you," he said, "in Deadman's name." He was absolutely serene.
I left the room, stunned and silent. I knew I was only a pawn—a hired gun, one of Deadman's Dogs, bound for certain death. But I was going to kill a God before I went out. I could hear Moontouch, whispering in my ear. 'I see men without minds, killing without remorse, and children without hope, waving the flags of an evil God. I see two madmen, leaders of the forces of light and darkness, locked in a struggle to the death for the future of humanity. You will follow the one and fight the other, and never know which God you serve.'
Chapter 21
Uniden Troopers
This was Goodlib City, capital of Pherdos. The Pherdans didn't have any choice when the Systies intervened. The Systies ruled from here."
Redhawk was at the controls of the aircar, ferrying me back to the squad. The wind whistled coldly against the plex as we hurtled over the remnants of the capitol, a nightmare city of the dead, great piles of smoking rubble stretching to the horizon under a dark grey sky. I had insisted on returning here, to choose my task force personally. Tara had not even argued about it.
"Doesn't look too healthy," I said.
"It wasn't much better before," Redhawk replied, grinning behind his faceplate. He looked more like a pirate than a soldier. The war didn't do much for our grooming or personal hygiene, and Redhawk wasn't overly concerned with either topic in the best of times. We were both in A-suits, and I cradled an E in my arms. The aircar's console chirped with electronic challenges and responses. I felt right at home. The planet may have been officially declared secure, but that didn't mean all the Systies had gotten the word.
Redhawk was right, I reflected. As on most Systie worlds, the System had holed up in their Government fortresses as society went to hell all around them, spurred on by Systie policies that divided the populace into mutually hostile groups that would end up fighting each other instead of the System. A corrupt government, a fraudulent democracy, a bankrupt economy, a failed legal system that protected lawyers and criminals and attacked the law-abiding, mandatory redistribution of wealth from workers to parasites until there was no more wealth to distribute, corrupt police…No, it had probably not been much better before. Pherdans or Systies, it was the same. Crime, poverty,
despair, resentment and helplessness—a familiar story.
"That's the capitol building," Redhawk said. "We took it while you were away. They ran out of biogen girls. We wound up fighting Mocains. Didn't last long." The car wheeled to one side, falling giddily downwards, and a huge, dark structure appeared on the horizon, a great multistoried bunker of armored stone, still intact. What a colossal waste!
I hopped out the assault door in the shadow of that obscene monument to the past, trying to see through the muddy spray from the car's downdraft.
"Thinker—give this to the guys!" Redhawk threw a cloth bag at me, almost as an afterthought. I tucked it under one arm as the aircar shot skywards. Not far away, a line of destitute women and children shuffled towards a field kitchen where troopers in Legion armor ladled out hot soup and Legion rations into plastic bowls. Children! My heart leaped at the thought of Stormdawn. He was safe and warm by his mother's side on Andrion 2—unlike these poor wasted, shivering unfortunates. I could barely stand to look at them. The System hated and feared its subjects. But all that was going to change now. The System was being swept away, forever, by us. If that was all we ever did, it would be enough.
A Legion aircar hovered up ahead over a sad tableau. A half-squad of Legion soldiers stood over their dead. Three A-suits lay side by side in the dirt, their armor burnt white by tacstars. The car touched down gently and the troopers moved to load the dead through the assault door. I made the sign of the Legion, instinctively. Further away, a work crew of DefCorps prisoners was marching off somewhere with a single Legion escort. Systie soldiers didn't have to fear their fate as Legion prisoners, assuming they didn't resist. I felt no anger at them, even though we had been fighting them not so long ago. I knew they were only pawns—just like me. Our anger was reserved for the politicals. They had best not let us capture them alive.
"Thinker! You're back!" Priestess suddenly appeared and collided with me in a sharp clash of armor. Her visor snapped up and she looked up at me with those lovely brown eyes, beaming like a child with a new toy. "Gimme a kiss!"
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