by Chris Bunch
THE
LAST
LEGION
Chris Bunch
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
For
Don and Carol McQuinn
Megan Zusne and Gary Lothian
Jim Fiscus
Not to mention
The Real Ben Dilley
and
The Real Jordan Brooks
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Appendix
Also Available
Copyright
CHAPTER
1
Ross 248/Waughtal’s Planet/Primeport
The police sweeper drifted past the alleyway, white faces under helmets inside staring straight ahead, disinterested.
Baka, Njangu Yoshitaro thought. He peered after them, saw the red-banded gravsled lift over the dome where the street curved. Fools.
Njangu wore dark brown pants and tunic, and a roll-down mask on his head. He pulled it over his face, adjusted the eyeholes, and went out of the alley. The wide boulevard was deserted under the hissing lights. Some shop windows were dark, more were lit with posturing mannequins, furniture, tron gear that no one in Yoshitaro’s district of Dockside would ever own unless they stole it.
Njangu darted across the street to the steel-barred, blank doorway. The lock was a Ryart Mod 06. Not the hardest, not the easiest. Four numeric buttons. He would have three chances before the lock either set off an alarm or froze, depending on the store owner’s paranoia and budget.
Try easy. The factory setting was 4783. He tried it, nothing happened. The owner thinks he’s clever. But his salesmen open for him sometimes. Perhaps … the shop’s address was 213. Blank first, blank second? Most likely first.
He spun the dials, and the door clicked open.
Not that clever.
There were a dozen clear-topped cases in the thick-carpeted room. The half-sentient gems inside caught the light from the street, reflected it back in moving, kaleidoscopic splendor as they moved like jeweled snakes.
Njangu took a com from his pouch, touched a transmit button, held it down for a count of three, then a count of one, then three once more. Half a dozen shadows ran silently toward the shop’s yawning door.
Yoshitaro trotted out, not looking back. He’d see the others later, get his share.
He ran for three long blocks, then turned down a dark street. He stripped off his hood, gloves, stuffed them in his belt pouch. He was walking quickly now, nothing but a tall, slender young man, respectably dressed, out a bit late, eager to get home and to bed.
The first shot rang dully from behind him, from the boulevard, then another and a third. Someone screamed, someone shouted. A metallic hailer shouted orders, inaudible but official.
Shit!
Njangu unsnapped the belt pouch, and took out a leather-bound book. He resealed the pouch with his burglar’s tools, pitched it under a parked gravsled, and went on, strolling now, his Tao-te ching held in prominent view. The temple closed, what? An hour, no, an hour and a half ago. You missed the last trans, eh? Yes, and stopped at a vend for a snack. See, here’s the wrapper in my pocket. Good.
It had better be.
He made another ten blocks before the spotlight caught him halfway across the street, and the sweeper’s guns spat coiling rope. One straint caught him around the waist, the second pinned his arms, and he went down. He rolled to his side, saw legs coming toward him, the outline of a blaster.
“Do not move,” the voice said, hard, metallic, robotic. “You are being restrained by a member of the Commonweal police as being under suspicion and a possible threat to life and public safety. Any movement will be determined as life-threatening.”
He obeyed.
“Good. Don’t even breathe.” The voice became almost human. “Eh, Fran. We have him.”
Another set of black legs came out of the police sweeper.
A boot nudged Njangu onto his back, a beam swept his brown face.
One cop dragged the wiry young man to his feet by the straints. Yoshitaro was taller than either of the men.
“Guess you didn’t have squat to do with a little B & E back on Giesebechstrasse, eh? ‘Bout ten minutes gone?”
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” Njangu said.
“Yeh. Guess you don’t know anybody named Lo Chen, Peredur, or Huda, either? Among some of your o ther friends we netted.”
Yoshitaro frowned, pretended thought, shook his head.
“Wonder if the eye we had floating got you?” one officer said gleefully. “Not that it matters, since we found this on you.”
He took a pocket-blaster from his boot.
“What were you going to do with it?”
“Never seen it before,” Njangu blurted, cursed silently for letting them draw him.
“You have now,” the second officer said. “It fell out of your waistband when we took you down. Bad charges, Yoshitaro. Violation of curfew, being outside your di strict, possession of firearms, and I’m not sure but what you were trying to pull it on us.”
“He was, he was,” the other voice said. “I saw it clear.”
“Attempted murder, then. Guess that’ll be more than enough, eh?”
Njangu’s face was calm, blank.
The cop drove a fist into Yoshitaro’s stomach, pleasure-filled eyes never leaving his face. Njangu caved in, let himself fall forward, turning to take the fall on his shoulder. As he fell, his legs lashed out, sweeping across the cop’s calves. The cop screeched in pain and s urprise, fell, his flash rolling away, sending swirls of light across the blank dark buildings around him.
Yoshitaro struggled to his knees, had one foot under him as the other cop came in, and Njangu saw the gloved fist smashing toward him.
Then nothing.
• • •
“It would seem,” the severe-faced woman said, “there’s little point in my recommending this matter be brought to trial.” She stared again at three screens whose display was hidden from Yoshitaro.
“All evidence appears in order, and your appointed defender advised he had nothing to offer on your behalf.”
Njangu’s bruised face was stone.
“You’ve had quite a career for someone just eighteen,” the woman went on. “I think it’s a blessing for the Commonweal you weren’t able to reach that pistol in time.”
She paused.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Stef Yoshitaro?”
“I do not recognize that name any longer.”
“So I understand. Very well. Njangu Yoshitaro.”
“I don’t guess there’s any point in saying anything, is there?”
“Show proper respect for the court,” the heavyset bailiff rumbled.
The judge touched other sensors.
“A long and unattractive career,” she mused. “Beginning when you were just thirteen. What happened to you, Njangu? The file on your family shows no reason for you to be what you are.”
It wouldn’t. Mother never went out until the bruises went down, and Dad bought his synth all over the city or sometimes made his own. And Marita would never tell anyone about our fathers little nighttime visits. No. There’s no good reason for me to be anything but what I am.
“Very well. Do you have anything to say for yourself? Are there any mitigating factors? The charges are most serious, even setting aside the matter of the attempted robbery of Van Cleef’s with your fellow gang members. What I understand you hooligans call a clique.”
None you’d recognize.
“In consideration of your age,” the woman said, her voice formal, “I offer two options. The first, of course, is Conditioning.”
Condit? A voice inside your head until you died, telling you just what to do. No spitting on the sidewalk, Yoshitaro. No alk. No drugs. Work hard, Yoshitaro. Don’t criticize the Commonweal. Tell any policeman whatever he asks. A guaranteed job, dull eyes handling other people’s credits and never thinking for a minute of slipping a handful into your own pocket for fear of that hidden voice.
I don’t think so.
“The second is Transport for Life.”
It couldn’t be any harder on the prison planetoid than here in Primeport.
“You may have half an hour to reach a decision,” the woman said. “Bailiff, escort this man to the holding cell.”
The man came toward Njangu, but he was already on his feet.
“I know the way.”
“Wait!”
The judge was opening another screen.
“There is another alternative, Yoshitaro, which I’d momentarily forgotten,” she said. “We received a mandate a few days ago. Although I doubt if you’ll consider it for even a moment.”
CHAPTER
2
Capella/Centrum
Alban Corfi, Chief of Procurement, Undeveloped Worlds, Elis Sector, was a careful man. He read the entitlement twice before looking up and nodding at his superior, Procurement Head Pandur Meghavarna.
“Very unusual, sir,” he agreed. “This is the what … thirtieth request for reinforcement and logistics this Strike Force Swift Lance — pretentious name, that — out there on the thin edge of nowhere’s sent in this E-year?”
“Thirty-fourth, actually,” Meghavarna corrected.
“Something you might know, sir. All the others were spiked for lack of proper priority, unavailability of equipment, improper preparation of forms, and such. Why was this one not only allowed, but given a Beta priority?”
“An excellent question, Corfi, one which I attempted to find an answer to. I received none. Perhaps the Lords of the Confederation are practicing their capriciousness.”
“Very well, sir,” Corfi said, opening the file again. “So what exactly do these noble frontiersmen think the Confederation is oh-so-willing and unable to give them? As if we aren’t stretched to the limit and beyond already.
“Hmm. Six Nirvana-class P-boats with supply train … well, they’ll whistle through their ears before they get any of those. Every one on the assembly line is tabbed for the Riot Troops. Alpha priority.
“Thirty-five heavy lifters, capable of carrying ten K-tons or greater for one thousand kis or more … I seem to remember there’s some reconditioned items we could allow them.
“Assorted assault lifters, gunships, and so forth. Impossible, but with that curious Beta priority I suppose we’ll have to give them what they want.
“Various other small vehicles, weapons, not a problem, not a problem …
“Twenty of the Nana–class strike boats? How’d anyone that far in the outback even hear of those? They haven’t even been formally accepted by the Fleet. Beta priority, schmeta priority. I hardly think we need to worry ourselves — ”
“Look again,” his superior said. Corfi obeyed, and his eyebrows lifted a trifle. That item was marked, in tiny green script, Approved, R.E.
“Well,” Corfi said, ashamed at his momentary lapse. “So I was wrong. If He has approved the matter, it’s up to Him to justify that to his superiors.” He sniffed, clearly distancing himself from future blame.
“Seven hundred and fifty trained men. The men they can have, heavens knows we’ve got enough of them. Take a few thousand more out of the slums for all of me. But trained? Doesn’t he know there’s a peace on?”
Meghavarna let a smile come and go. “What about transport?”
“I’ve got the Malvern about through with her refit,” Corfi said. “Terrible waste of fuel and all, but with a skeleton crew …
“Yes, the Malvern. And we can transship in a cycle, perhaps two. Or as soon as they release those precious Nanas.”
“Good,” Meghavarna approved. “I assumed you could expedite the matter.” He rose. “I was a bit worried when your assistant told me you weren’t in yet, knowing you live out toward Bosham.”
“I didn’t even try to go home last night,” Corfi said. “Stayed at the club, so I wouldn’t get caught in the troubles.”
“What’re they wanting this time?” Meghavarna asked. “I don’t really keep up on civ doings.”
“Bread, no bread, too much bread, the wrong sort of bread, or something,” Corfi said indifferently. “Does it matter?”
“Not really.”
Corfi saluted perfunctorily, left Meghavarna’s office. He took the drop to the main floor where his bodyguards waited, then rode the slideway for half a mile to his offices.
He decided he’d handpick the Malvern’s crew using his man in BuPers. That couldn’t rebound on him, no matter what happened, since no one with sense concerned themselves with who went where in Transportation Division.
A nice obedient crew … then he’d bounce the Malvern once, maybe twice, in various “directions” before he jumped it toward its final destination through Larix/Kura. That should keep his boots clean.
Corfi reached his office, told his bodyguards to take a break — he wouldn’t be needing them for an hour or so. Corfi neatly hung his body-armored overtunic on an antique wall rack, unlocked his safe, and removed the cleaner. He swept the office, found nothing more than the two standard bugs feeding prerecorded pap to Security, and keyed the vid to his assistant’s line. Corfi gave the man some meaningless orders, while he checked the line with the cleaner. Still clean. He touched sensors.
The screen cleared, and he was looking at a tiny garden. Curled on its synthetic moss was a young woman, barely more than a girl. She was naked, and her ash-blondness was natural.
“Hi, darl,” she said throatily.
Corfi grinned. “Suppose I was the bloc monitor?”
“He doesn’t have my code,” she said. “I didn’t expect to hear from you until tomorrow. I thought you were seeing the wife-o tonight.”
“I was,” Corfi said. “But seeing you like you are … I guess those damned riots’ll keep me at the office another night.”
“Pity,” the woman said. “I’ll be ready.”
“You can be more than ready,” Corfi said. “Remember that bracelet you were looking at?”
“Ooo.”
“Suddenly we can afford it.”
The girl squealed in delight.
“I thought that’d make you happy,” Corfi said.
“Oh, I am, I am, darl. Hurry home, so I can show you just how happy I am.” She parted her thighs slightly, caressed herself.
“Got to go now,” Corfi said, realizing he was having a bit of trouble breathing. “I’ve got some work to take care of.”
The girl smiled, and the screen blanked.
Corfi waited until he calmed, then touched sensors onc
e more. The screen blurred, became blank green. Again he keyed numbers, and the same thing happened. At the third screen he input letters and numbers he’d memorized several years ago, touched the SEND sensor. The transmission would be bounced at least a dozen times before it reached Larix.
As soon as he’d finished the final group, he broke contact, and, once again, checked for a bug. Still nothing.
Alban Corfi, soon to be somewhat richer, was a very careful man.
CHAPTER
3
Altair/Klesura/Happy Vale
Tweg Mik Kerle stared glumly out at perfection. Utterly blue sky. Sky, even if it was a little reddish, beautiful, with a scattering of clouds. A spring breeze filtered through the open door, and Kerle smelled flowers, fresh hay, and, from somewhere, a woman’s perfume.
He heard the tinkle of her laughter and snarled.
Perfection all around, and he was supposed to recruit for the Confederation’s Army. Why would anyone here want to enlist and go wallow through the mud on some armpit world where people were actively trying to kill her? Leave a place where everyone seemed to know his place and, worse yet, like it? A place where all the women were gorgeous and happy, and the men stalwart and good-tempered?
Like that oaf looking in the window at Kerle’s carefully spread-out exhibits. Here a tiny uniformed tweg ordered her twenty soldiers through a fascinating confidence course, there a cent was receiving a medal from his caud, while his hundred stood in stiff ranks behind, and in the center three strikers busied themselves learning some sort of electron-trade. He’d gape at the tiny mannequins, then guffaw and go harvest his turnips or whatever he harvested.
Kerle moaned, still looking at the bumpkin. Tall, almost two meters. Well-built. Good muscles. Blond. Human to the nth classification. Handsome, the sort men would follow anywhere, given a few years seasoning. A recruiting poster sort of yokel. Don’t walk away, boy. Come on through those doors and help a poor tired tweg make his quota.
Kerle goggled. The yokel was walking through the door.
The recruiter came to his feet, beaming, well-rehearsed camaraderie in gear, while the back of his brain told him the young man had no doubt just slipped away from the nearest home for the terminally confused.