The Last Legion: Book One of the Last Legion Series

by Chris Bunch

  “You’re wearing too much,” she said, and Njangu obediently slid out of his shorts.

  Angie tube-rolled her shorts and tunic, put them down on the mat about a meter away from her.

  “Come here, Deira,” she whispered. “Next to me. Put your hips on my pants.”

  The girl melted into Angie’s arms. After a bit, Angie pushed on her head, and Deira kissed down Angie’s neck, across her breasts and stomach. Angie lifted, parted her legs, gasped as Deira’s fingers found her.

  “Oh yes, oh good,” she sighed. “Njangu, come here. I want you to bite me on my tits, my stomach. Then do it to Deira while she loves me. I promised her she could be first.”

  • • •

  Garvin guessed he was no more than fifteen minutes from the hotel, and making good time on the curving downhill road. He was singing quietly:

  Oh don’t you remember

  Dumb Garvin from Altair

  Who’d screw up a sure thing

  No matter where.

  His mouth was a terror

  It never would mind

  He’d say something stupid

  And then get kicked blind.

  He went to a soiree

  Just lookin ‘for fun

  The women were friendly,

  And hot as a gun.

  The prettiest was Jasith —

  He broke off, looking for a rhyme for Jasith, failed to find one. “She sure was lovely,” he mourned. “Nice and friendly and warm and — ”

  He heard the scrape, jumped sideways. The first man’s sap came down, missed, and he tried to recover, staggering on a few footsteps. The second man had some kind of gun. He pointed it at Garvin, who ducked as the weapon hissed and something spat past, very close.

  At the side of the road was a tall, straight-limbed bush. Garvin tore off a branch, held it across his chest like a fighting stave.

  “Oh you poor bastards,” he said. “You poor sorry bastards. Did you ever pick somebody in the wrong goddamned mood.”

  The second man aimed his gun. Garvin darted to the side, raked the butt end of the branch across the sapman’s face, who cried out and stumbled back. Without pausing, he snapped the branch’s other end across the gunman’s wrist, and the gun spun away, into the street. Garvin brought his knee up, smashed the branch across it. Now he held two clubs about 10cm in diameter and 50cm long.

  “Let’s play,” he said. The second man reached in a pocket for something. Garvin clubbed his forearm, then smashed the other club across the bridge of the man’s nose. The man screamed, had both hands over his face. Garvin drove the club like a sword into his gut, kicked the man hard in the side of the head as he went down.

  “Now for your young ass,” he said grimly. The first man was holding up his hand, whining, pleading. Garvin smashed him on the elbow with the club in his left hand. The man howled, clutched his wrist with his other hand. Jaansma snapped the club in his right into the man’s face, heard teeth crack. He kicked the man in the stomach like he was driving a ball into the score zone, and the man whip-snapped, fell backward, lay motionless. Garvin stood over the two for a short time, breathing hard, waiting for movement. There wasn’t any.

  “Stupid goniffs,” he said. “Rob a soldier, who’s never got any goddamned money anyway.”

  He looked up and down the road, saw no vehicles. He spotted the gun, picked it up, and examined it. Some kind of knockout weapon, he thought. Nice and new-looking. Thieves don’t normally carry trick shit like this I wouldn’t think.

  He picked up one man by the hair, ignored his ruined face, sniffed his breath. No alcohol. The same was true of the other. That’s also a little unique.

  He went through their pockets, found two ID cards, pocketed them, continued searching. Both had some money and, interestingly, two identical expensive-looking corns fitted with scramblers.

  “Hmm. Wish I were some kinda detective, so this shit’d make sense,” he muttered.

  He considered calling the police, found himself grinning. Njangu would beat my butt for even thinking that. Besides, they’d keep him up the rest of the night with stupid questions he had no answers for. He pocketed the corns, the money, and the ID cards, and trotted away, toward Leggett.

  • • •

  Half an hour later, he saw the lights of the Shelburne ahead. A woman came out of the shadows.

  “Morning, sister,” he greeted. “Up late, aren’t you?”

  “Looking for a good time, I am,” she said. “You interested? Half price, and you can stay ‘til you wake up?”

  “No thanks.”

  “You one of those who like boys?” the whore asked, not insultingly.

  “Nope,” Garvin Jaansma said, thinking of Jasith Mellusin, and her melting lips. “Just stupid.”

  CHAPTER

  17

  “ ’Kay, troops,” Alt Hedley told the company. “Break ranks and gather around this tippy-top-secret map and hear the good skinny.” The men and women of Intelligence and Reconnaissance Company obeyed. “First,” Hedley said, “let’s welcome the new fools. Monique’s shattered ‘em so much they actually want to flipping join us. Tsk.”

  Njangu caught Penwyth’s eye, grinned. They’d managed to get into Petr Kipchak’s Gamma Team, First Troop. Ton Milot was in Alpha of the First, Hank Faull went to Vic Team, Second Troop, and Angie was in Eta Team, Second. Njangu was not unhappy Rada wasn’t in his team. The rest of their graduation leave had been mostly spent in Issus with Deira. Njangu’d taken Ton Milot aside, and told him what’d happened, and asked if he was about to get in trouble with anybody in the village.

  Milot laughed. “Not here, my friend. We figure what people do is what they do. Everybody knows Deira’s a wild one.” He looked wistful. “She and I got friendly a couple of times, back before I joined up, and I asked Lupul if she’d mind if Deira stayed with us. Lupul said she’d cut off my whacker, because if that happened, I’d never have any energy for fishing. So don’t worry and have fun.”

  The three had … or so Njangu thought. He was starting to wonder if, indeed, all great things happen in a city. But at the end of the leave, Angie confronted him. “Look,” she said. “When we get back … I sleep alone. There’s nothing between us.”

  “I know that,” Njangu said. “Screwing and work don’t mix.”

  “Good,” Angie said. She acted like she was angry. “And don’t be talking about anything else.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like what happened with Deira.”

  “But Ton Milot knows …” Njangu said, puzzled, then stopped, seeing Angie’s lips compress. “ ’Kay. I’m not much into giving away family secrets.”

  “Best not,” she said, and started packing. And that appeared to be that. Njangu tried to forget about it.

  “ ’Kay,” Hedley said. “War games in four days, right? Everything’s a flipping secret, right?” Somebody snickered. “Don’t step on my lines,” Hedley warned. “You could end up humping a sackful of rocks up and down the company area.

  “Anyway, first thing is that we’re going to be the aggressors, as usual. Plus they’ve detailed off First and Second Company, Third Regiment to play bad guys with us. We’ll also get a couple of Zhukovs and half a dozen Griersons. They’re looking for volunteer armor crews right now.

  “Needless to say, what I’m gonna give you now is flipping classified, and not to be talked about outside the company, ‘cause we’re not supposed to know any of this.”

  He pulled the cover off the map. Njangu recognized it as the mountainous center of Dharma Island, with the outskirts of Leggett at the far left-hand side. There were arrows drawn here and there. A woman wearing the slashes of a tweg groaned.

  “You recognize it, eh?” Hedley asked, amused.

  “Yessir,” the woman said. “Same turf as … three years ago, isn’t it?”

  “Sure is,” Hedley said, sounding delighted. “Same flipping scenario, too.”

  He touched the first arrow. “The general scheme is that the S
trike Force is going to make an in-atmosphere landing here, about thirty kilometers east of Leggett, against an entrenched enemy — us. They’ll drive us north, flipping killers that they are, to here, right at the foot of Mount Najim, where we’ll regroup.

  “Strike Force Swift Lance will then make a final assault on our positions, and we, instead of retreating farther east into the Highlands like sensible flipping folks, will let ourselves be driven up to about here, close to the crest of Najim.

  “There we make a suicidal last stand, and get wiped out and-slash-or captured, then the Task Force, meaning Caud Williams and the staff, will host a luncheon for PlanGov and the Rentiers, so all the fat cats’ll have a chance to praise our lethal beauty.”

  Monique Lir held up a hand.

  “Go, Monique.”

  “No offense, boss, but wouldn’t it make more sense for the Strike Force to be the defenders against, say, attackers from offplanet? Like, maybe, Musth? Or against those pirates who ripped off the gear we were supposed to be getting.”

  “You don’t understand the big picture,” Hedley said gently. “Attacking is a lot more romantic than sitting in a hole in the ground.”

  “Shit,” Lir said.

  Hedley shrugged. “We weren’t consulted any more’n usual. The way it’ll work is the two companies of line animals’ll take care of the digging and follow the scenario the staff wrote up. I&R’s going to play the part of rotten behind-the-lines raiders, and stir about gently trying to create a commotion. One thing that’ll help us a bit … the met folks are predicting the flipping rainy season’ll dump on in early this year. Like tomorrow or the next day, so we’ll have some nice nasty weather to hide in.”

  There was laughter, and Njangu saw evil, anticipatory expressions.

  “Study up on the map,” Hedley said, “and start thinking of ways to screw with our noble brothers. The rules won’t let us baddies win, of course. But I’d like for the white hats to know they’ve been meddled with.

  “One other thing, and I’ll personally flipping crucify anybody who ever says anything about it. It’s a real jungle out there, and there’s some folks who don’t like soldier girls at all. Each man will carry one magazine of real rounds in his backpack, just in case. If by any chance those real poppers get confused with the blanks you’ll be issued, all the gods had better have mercy on your ass, for I’ll have none. And if anybody gets hit, I’ll have you prosecuted for murder, and deny anybody in I&R ever saw a real round except on the range. That’s all. Noncoms, take charge of your sections … dismissed.”

  Hedley started toward the orderly room.

  “Sir?” Kipchak called.

  “What do you need, Petr?”

  “A few minutes alone,” Kipchak said. “Striker Yoshitaro’s got something you might be interested in.”

  “In with the both of you.”

  “Njangu,” Petr said. “Go get the stuff.”

  • • •

  The “stuff” was the two corns, sap, knockout gun, and the ID cards Garvin had taken from his attackers. Garvin had told Njangu what’d happened, asked for suggestions. Should he call the police? Njangu, as expected, had sneered. Should he report it to his CO? Njangu asked Jaansma what he thought of the woman. Garvin hadn’t much contact with Cent Haughton, but if the company first shirt, Malagash, was any indication, he wouldn’t expect much. Njangu said he could turn it over to his CO, Hedley, who seemed to have intelligence both upper and lower case and see what happened.

  “ ’Kay,” Garvin said. “But try to keep me out of it.”

  “Why’re you so touchy? You were just a handsome lad, attending an Utterly party in the Heights, and got skulked on.”

  “Caud Williams said he didn’t want to see my loverly face ever ever ever again,” Garvin said. “I’m following orders.”

  “You worry too much,” Njangu said. “ ’Kay. I’ll prob’ly have to tell Hedley who the poor sinned-against fool was, but I’ll ask him to keep it QT.”

  Hedley examined one of the corns. “Nice, new … and it’s a mate to the other one,” he said. “Why would a common thief be carrying one of these, especially fitted with a scrambler? He’d dump it to a fence for his night’s buzz. Plus a knockout-type shooter,” he went on, picking up the gun. “Your friend’s friends were nonviolent … or else they wanted a live body.”

  “That’s what I was wondering, sir,” Yoshitaro said.

  “These two ID cards,” Hedley said. “They’re ’Raum.”

  “How do you know, sir?” Kipchak asked.

  “The Rentiers pushed a measure through their Council and then PlanGov about seven years ago that all ’Raum have a Y prefix on their ID numbers. Any notion that those gentle souls might be a leetle bigoted is a definite slander, ho-ho,” Hedley explained. “But why would the ’Raum, even the baddies in the boonies, want some rear-rank striker for a prisoner? I think you’d better tell me about your friend.”

  Njangu obeyed.

  “Why didn’t he call the cops? Most soldiers who get mugged holler in that general direction,” Hedley asked.

  “He sort of thinks like I do, sir,” Njangu answered honestly. “Police haven’t been our friends for a whole lot of our lives.”

  “Mmmh,” Hedley mused. “And he wants to stay clean now. ’Kay, I’ll do what I flipping can. I’m going to take this little story up to some people I trust in II Section, and also some folks in Policy and Analysis. That’s the Planetary Police Intelligence, and they’re almost half as good as they think they are. Ought to be, since they’ve had two hundred flipping years to get organized. You two can go back to work. Thanks for reporting this — it won’t get pigeonholed, whatever the blazes a goddamned pigeon is.”

  “A request, sir,” Njangu said. “I’d like to tell my friend what you said. And you said something about needing volunteers with ACVs.”

  “Your friend’s on a Grierson?”

  “He is. Third Platoon, A Company, Second Infantry. A gunner, sir.”

  The lanky alt hesitated.

  “His TC’s a big bastard named Ben Dill,” Petr said.

  “I know him … know of him anyway,” Hedley said. “Bad attitude. Violent sort. About the size of a Zhukov. If he wasn’t prejudiced against walking, he’d make a great I&R noncom. Good. Go get Dill’s Pickles for us. We can always use another asshole.”

  • • •

  Striker Garvin Jaansma bounced into A Company’s orderly room, stripped his fatigue cap off, and stood attention, dripping a bit of transmission oil on the freshly waxed floor. There was no one in the orderly room except the company clerk, a snotty little finf named Calmahoy. “The CO wants to see you,” he said.

  “That’s what Tweg Ric told me,” Garvin said.

  “She’s in her office. Knock first.”

  Garvin marched across the room, counting his sins, and rapped in a businesslike manner.

  “Come in.”

  It wasn’t true that Cent Dian Haughton ironed military creases in her brassiere every night, but it should’ve been. She was all army, from her closely cropped hair to her perfect posture to her immaculate uniform. Nobody knew how good or bad an officer she was, for in the three months she’d been in charge of A Company she ran things through her efficient bully of a first tweg, Malagash. Garvin threw her his best salute, stood at rigid attention, suddenly aware of the microcalipers and circuit reader sticking out of his coverall pocket.

  “At ease,” Haughton said. “You know what the company policy is for taking personal corns during work hours?”

  “Yes’m,” Garvin said. “You don’t.”

  “And your friends aren’t supposed to call, either.”

  “No ma’am,” he agreed.

  She handed him two pink message slips. “Read them.”

  Garvin wondered who might’ve … and then his eyebrows crawled toward the ceiling. The first was from a “Jaseeth Mellusin,” the second from a Loy Kouro.

  “Your business is your business,” Haughton said. “But if I
might, I’d like to ask a couple of questions.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Is this Mellusin any relation to the mining family?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Hmmph. And therefore this Loy Kouro’s connected to the holo Matin?”

  “He is.”

  “Friends of yours?”

  “One … I hope is,” Garvin said. “I think the other’s more of an enemy.”

  “For a brand-new striker,” Haughton said, “you certainly travel in interesting circles.”

  “Do you think so, ma’am?” Garvin’s voice was neutral, his expression bland. Haughton waited until she realized Jaansma wasn’t going to elaborate. She grunted.

  “Very well. You have my permission to return the calls now. Use the executive officer’s office. The blue com goes directly off camp, so you’ll have privacy.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Haughton looked him up and down. “I’ll be very interested in your progress, Striker. Dismissed.”

  • • •

  “This is Jasith,” the throaty whisper came.

  “This is Garvin Jaansma. I’m the — ”

  “Soldier,” she interrupted. “I hadn’t had hardly anything to sniff or drink, so I remember everything.”

  “I guess I owe you an apology,” Garvin started.

  “No,” Jasith said. “I called to tell you I was sorry. I’d had a fight with Daddy before I came, about how I was lazy and not willing to work and not worthy of being a Mellusin, and I was just in a perfectly foul mood, and trying to pretend I wasn’t.

  “So when you and Loy started fighting, I’m afraid it struck me wrong, and I just made an ass of myself. I’m sorry, Garvin.”

  “No,” Garvin said. “I’m sorry. I should’ve learned to control my big mouth and my temper by now.”

  “And things were going … just so nicely,” Jasith whispered. “I remember your kisses.”

  “I remember some other things.”

  “Like a big bed of flower petals?”

  Garvin found himself breathing a little hard. “Something like that.”

  “If you let me … if you want … maybe there’ll be a next time sometime.”