Secret of the Legion

by Marshall S. Thomas

  ***

  When we came to the head on a stake, I knew we were in the right place. It had seemed like just another suburban shopping area, except for the roadblocks with kids toting SG's. The residential areas were mostly cube blocs, but they were neat and clean. Whit and I had left Nelson with the aircar in the carpark and now we were wandering around the shopping area with the population. They seemed to be mostly Outworlders, and I didn't spot any obvious poverty or signs of crime. It was lightly raining, cold and miserable. It did not look like a particularly revolutionary area, but this was Pearce Plaza, Pearce was supposed to be a center of subversive activity, and it was reportedly where Beta Eight had fled after the incident at the sweetflesh factory.

  And there it was, right in the center of the shopping plaza—a human head, bloodily mounted on a tall wooden stake. Something had been carved onto his forehead, but I couldn't make it out because of the blood. A roll of thunder reverberated overhead, almost as if somebody had timed it to add to our sense of foreboding. The head was a horrible spectacle, but the rest of the shoppers were ignoring it. I turned to a punk who was lounging nearby.

  "Who's your buddy?" I gestured to the head.

  "Internal Revenue," the punk smirked in reply. "And he ain't my buddy!" He struggled to his feet and slouched off.

  "Well, let's start asking around," I suggested to Whit. "I don't know what else to do."

  We never got a chance. The shoppers slowly faded away. Three kids with SG's appeared from out of the yellow smog and took up positions around us. One of them was a girl.

  "Freedom Front," the girl announced. "ID's, please."

  "We're from off-planet," I explained as we handed over our bogus System ID cards. "We're looking for a friend of ours—Kenkan Megwa. We understand he's in the neighborhood."

  "These are Systie ID's," the girl said, looking up at us sharply. "Don't you have Front ID's?"

  "I told you, we're from off-planet. Have you heard of Kenkan Megwa?"

  Her face was a mask. "Everybody knows him. You want to meet him? Come with us."

  ***

  "You say you're a friend of Kenkan." He was a young Outworlder, wiry and alert, with intelligent grey eyes and long shaggy hair, sitting at a desk examining the contents of our pockets, which were strewn over the desktop. Whit and I had our hands cuffed together behind our backs. My throat was burning from the air. A young streetfighter was lounging against one wall with a subgun.

  "That's right," I replied.

  "Kind of heavy on weaponry for meeting a friend, aren't you?" He fingered one of the two vac guns. There was also a shockrod, a hot knife, two cold knives, a boot knife, two autobillies and a knuckleshocker. The Stardust's armory had been well stocked and I had helped myself.

  "We heard it was a bad neighborhood."

  "It is. Sometimes it's fatal—for people asking about Kenkan Megwa." He examined our ID's. "Where did you know Kenkan?"

  "Off-planet. We're old friends. Both of us. He knows us by other names. Show him the ID pix."

  "What names did he know you by?"

  "Tell him it's Beta Three and Maralee Whitney."

  "I'll do that. Don't go anywhere." He left the room abruptly. The kid with the subgun remained, propping up the wall. We were not about to go anywhere.

  "What if they psyched it?" Whit hissed through clenched teeth. "It won't remember us!"

  "You've got a real pessimistic streak there, haven't you?"

  ***

  They took us to him in an aircar. Whit and I were bundled together in the back, our hands still secured behind us, accompanied by three very relaxed streetkids armed with SG's and one very young driver who was evidently still learning to drive. We hurtled into the dusk shakily with the windows down and a light rain spraying over us and the SG's pointed carelessly out the windows as their owners chanted nonsense to each other. It appeared that the Freedom Front owned the area. By the time we arrived it was dark and the rain had turned to a cold drizzle.

  "Out." We stepped out of the car onto a wet gravel drive. We faced a gloomy building half hidden between two large shadowy trees. There was a faint light by the intercom on the door but otherwise it was dark. It looked like a detached home.

  "In." The kids pushed us in roughly as the door slid open. It was dark inside as well. We were in a large entry hall. I wasn't sure if we were there to meet Beta Eight, to be killed, or maybe both. I sensed a cavernous room off to my left, also darkened. Little red sparks were dancing in there. I caught a whiff of incense, charged with something heavy, a powerful musk.

  A shadow appeared out of that dark room, as lithe and quiet as a great cat. I knew immediately it was Beta Eight. He stood there, only a mike away from us. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I could see black hair, deep-set glittering eyes, distinct features, and a firm mouth set in a rock-hard jaw.

  "Dragon!" Whit croaked. She sounded scared.

  He reached out one arm, and his hand settled on Whit's shoulder, hesitantly. Then it moved cautiously up her neck to her cheek. He stared into her face, totally silent. His fierce eyes shifted to me. I glared back at him. His other hand reached out for my shoulder and steel-hard fingers dug into my flesh.

  "Whit," he said. "Thinker. I don't believe it. I'm dreaming. Whit! I thought I'd never see you again. I thought you were gone forever. Thinker. Thinker! They told me you were dead. Dead! You're alive! May Deadman walk! I thank the Gods of war! Release them—release them! These are my comrades—my oldest comrades! Release them immediately!"

  ***

  "Try some," Dragon said, offering me a tiny cup of what looked like warm tea. "It will calm you. It's good for reflection." The two of us were sitting by Dragon's desk in the large room from which he had emerged to meet us the previous day. The room was a study, lined with shelves of datapaks. The desk was stacked high with comgear and weaponry. E's and SG's were propped against the walls. There were no lights. It was very early morning outside, but there were no windows in the room, and mornings on Yida tended to be dark anyway. Incense smoke hung in the still air, and spooky music moaned in the background.

  "What is this?" I asked, looking suspiciously into the cup.

  "You want to live forever?" Dragon responded with an easy grin.

  "What does that mean?"

  "Private joke—between you and me. But I guess you don't remember Planet Hell. Go ahead, it won't hurt you."

  I took a sip. It was good—warm and soothing.

  "That'll mellow you out in no time," Dragon said. "I don't use it when I work. But it's good for the down time."

  "Nice quarters you've got here. Looks like some rich guy's house."

  "Yes—it is. He donated it. He's out in the streets, leading one of our strike forces. He's a good man."

  "He just gave away his home? No persuasion needed?"

  "His wife was a crime victim." Dragon said it as if it explained everything. I wasn't sure what he meant.

  "Where's Whit?" I asked.

  "Still asleep. I always get up early. You're up pretty early yourself."

  "I have trouble sleeping." Whit had surgically attached herself to Dragon the previous day, as totally smitten as a biogen love doll, blinking wet-eyed adoration up at him, absolutely worshipping the man. Dragon had embraced her and not once let go. I had last seen them heading for Dragon's bedroom after dinner, with Whit almost dancing in anticipation. I had spent an uneasy night, my mind swirling with violent images.

  The tea was not bad, I reflected. Dragon's eyes were closed—he was off somewhere.

  "Did Whit tell you we want to take you back with us?" I asked.

  "Yes," he responded. His eyes were still closed. "She told me it was all a lie. The Legion lied to us."

  "It wasn't the Legion," I replied. "It was the CrimCon."

  He opened his eyes. "CrimCon? You mean ConFree. Yes…it was a couple of ConFree pukes who briefed me. They said everybody was killed—but they lied. They said you were dead, they said Cinta was dead. They said I was t
he only survivor. I never trusted ConFree—but I believed them. I knew they were liars, but I believed them, when they told me everyone had died. I was expecting it."

  "They psyched me," I said, "and sent me to a psycho ward on a System world. It's a miracle Cinta and Whit found me."

  "They did pretty good to find me, too. I quit the Legion, voluntarily. You see…death follows me, wherever I go. It's a curse. All my friends are cursed—they all die. It's happened to me before. But the Mound—that was it, for me. When they told me everyone was dead—it was like being shot through the forehead with a laser burst. You don't remember this, but they psyched me. ConFree psyched me, before Uldo, and I betrayed you in the Mound. I betrayed Beta, for ConFree. It was like betraying myself. You left me behind, cuffed. The Legion found me there. I was finished, then. They told me Beta was done, and I believed it, and I decided it was time to quit." He held out his hands to me, palms down. His knuckles and fingers were covered with faces—miniature, full-color faces, burnt into his flesh. "They all stood by my side, and died. I wanted to leave it all behind me. I wanted to start a new life, so I quit the Legion, and came here, to Systie vac."

  He sipped at the tea. Incense smoke hung in the air. The walls were covered with news pix and doc printouts.

  "I just wanted a quiet life," Dragon continued. "I just wanted peace, and a normal life. Maybe I really wanted forgiveness for my sins. I wanted to forget the Legion and all it meant. I knew I couldn't do that in ConFree vac. So I came here. I thought maybe I could change my life—do good deeds, something like that. I had plenty of credits. You're set for life when you retire from the Legion, but I didn't want money. I wanted redemption. I left the money behind me. The only thing I bought was a new identity, as a nobody. I came here as an immigrant, a cipher, seeking a new life. The last thing I wanted was trouble. They assigned me to the sweetflesh factory, right away. And it all began again."

  He gazed into the distance, into the dark. "You can't escape your past," he said. "It's always there. I wanted Beta Eight to die, but he was still here. Still here, meting out justice. Blind and deaf and dumb and totally merciless. I didn't say a word when I was doing it. I just fired until they were all dead. One round each—right between the eyes. Then I opened the cages, and let loose those hopeless beasts. Futile. Stupid. Meaningless. I knew it even then."

  Strange, I thought. Dragon wanted to lose his past, and couldn't. I wanted to find my past, and couldn't. We were both cursed.

  "I headed for the Freedom Front," Dragon continued. "I knew I couldn't hide from the past any more. They accepted me, without question. I'm happy here, now. I don't want to leave. This is my home. I'm at peace, here."

  A faint tapping interrupted us. One of the child commandos stood by the open doorway. "Visitor," he announced. "Angie Mercer's mother. Will you see her?"

  "Angie Mercer." Eight frowned. "Yes, I'll see her."

  She was a young lady, quite attractive, slim and athletic, shoulder-length blonde hair, a weary face, standing in the doorway silently with a large wicker basket of colorful fruit. Dragon stood up. I stood up, too. I suddenly realized our visitor was in the grip of some powerful emotion. She was biting into her lower lip. Her face was twitching and her swollen red eyes were suddenly brimming with tears.

  Dragon stepped forward and took the basket wordlessly. She gasped, and embraced him suddenly. He stood there silently as her fingers dug into his back. Her body was shuddering with sobs. I stood frozen beside them, embarrassed, pretending to be invisible.

  When she eventually detached herself from Dragon, her face was streaked with tears and she was still twitching.

  "Thank you," she gasped. "God bless you!"

  "The Front is your servant," Dragon said. "Now go home and get some sleep."

  She left, and we settled into our seats again. Dragon put the fruit basket on the desk. "Breakfast," he said, picking up a plum. "Have some."

  "What are you," I asked, "some kind of priest?"

  Dragon smiled. "Yes, I guess you could say that. You could say I'm a…healer. Yes, a healer. A priest, for troubled times. A holy man, a righter of wrongs. A light, for the lost. A physician, for tortured souls. Yes—that's me!" He took a bite out of the plum. He sounded depressed.

  I was silent.

  "Want to see my inspiration?" Dragon reached up to the wall behind the desk, tore down a colored pix, and handed it to me. It was a newspix printout. A child, faintly smiling at the camera. A little boy, maybe four or five, reddish hair, freckles, brown eyes. He had a purplish bruise under one eye and another on his forehead.

  "Inspiration," Dragon repeated. "That boy was my inspiration, my…illumination. I looked at that picture for weeks—he used to come at me in my dreams, every night. Just like that, bruised and smiling. Looking into the future."

  "So what's his story?" I asked.

  "He had no story. His mother's live-in beat him to death. Beat him for years, and finally beat him to death. There was a lot of nasty publicity. They put the man on trial, and the judge set him free. Just set him free. Not a single day of punishment. A good-behavior bond, I believe they called it. Good behavior. Right.

  "I went after the judge first. I shot him down in the street like a dog, and carved the double-F into his forehead with a hot knife—it's the Freedom Front's symbol. Nobody could figure it out at first—he hadn't done anything against the Front. Then a few days later I executed the live-in, and gave him the double-F, too. Then everybody knew. The System went crazy, but since that day the Freedom Front has enjoyed the almost unanimous support of the people. Justice is all you have to give people. That's all anyone wants—simple justice." Dragon sounded weary.

  "So you're an executioner?"

  "I settle accounts. I'm a servant of the people, an instrument, meting out justice for the powerless. Nobody need fear me except arrogant judges, treasonous parole boards, corrupt lawyers, bloodsucking internal revenue officials and murderous criminals. For them, I'm the angel of death." His eyes were glowing. "I had good training, you see. So did you."

  "So you're happy here?"

  "I'm at peace. I've accepted what I am. I'm useful here. I'm performing a valuable service the people don't get from the System—justice. Justice, for everyone. We put their heads up on stakes now. Crime has dropped to almost zero since we started doing that. And the Government has stopped plaguing the people, here in Pearce. We're the government now. You see, they made themselves irrelevant. They shouldn't be surprised at the result."

  "So you kill government officials as well as criminals."

  "That's even more important than killing criminals, because one Goodlib official can unleash a horde of criminals on the public if he's stupid. And all Goodlibs are stupid. We look at the crime first. There's only one penalty—death. If the crime doesn't deserve death, we do nothing. But if it does, the Front passes sentence. If it's unanimous, we do it. First we look at where he is. He's always free, either because the authorities decided to release him, or because he was never detained in the first place. If it's clear who's responsible for his being on the street, we also target them—judge, parole board, whoever made the decision. They die, too. They die first, actually. The criminal is secondary."

  "What about that lady who was just in here?"

  Dragon sighed. "A subhuman raped and murdered her little daughter about two years ago. Tortured her to death, actually. He had three other rape-murder convictions on record. They always free them. They did the same this time. But that wasn't all. The girl had injured the sub, while resisting him. Resistance is, of course, illegal. The sub's lawyers sued the girl's mother—the lady you just saw. The court awarded the sub two million credits. Most of it goes to the lawyers, of course. It meant the girl's mother not only lost her daughter, but lost everything else, to her daughter's murderer. She didn't have two million credits, of course—but they took all she had. That was last week. The Freedom Front works a lot faster than the System. I executed the judge two days ago. The arrogant bast
ards never seem to expect it. We caught up to the rapist yesterday. We let the mother execute him, herself. I personally handed her the weapon. It made me feel good—really good, seeing justice done. Another head on a stake. It always makes my day. Have some more tea."

  ***

  It was a narrow, poorly lit hallway, lined with cold metal doors. Kids ran past us shouting—their echoes rolled along the hall in their wake. Some people had their doors open and noisy music was blasting away. It smelled like sour food and sweat.

  "Next one down," our young guide said, pushing open a fire door to reveal another stairwell. He was one of Dragon's streetfighters, spotty skin and extra long hair, armed with a vac gun.

  "This place is swarming with people," I said. "Are you sure it's safe here?" I found it hard to believe a revolutionary outfit could operate so openly.

  "We own this whole complex," Dragon assured me. "The System doesn't come in here." He was wearing a khaki raincoat that barely concealed the cut-down SG dangling from one shoulder. I thought the sunglasses a nice touch—it was almost high noon outside, but Yida's white dwarf didn't generate much sunlight.

  "Stop worrying, Three," Whit said. "Dragon has got it under control." She was looking mellow, cheeks flushed, dreamy eyes—she was almost floating. Well, he's got her under control, I thought. That much is certain.

  The stairwell was well guarded. More heavily armed youths, their weapons pointed in every possible direction.

  "Do these kids ever shoot each other?" I asked Dragon.

  "They're mostly ex-VS," he said. "We give them basic firearms training. They don't need motivation—they've got that already."

  "Here we are," our guide said. We had entered the lowest level somewhere in the sub-basement, a hall lined with pipes, the floor slick with moisture. Two guards with SG's were posted by a door. They looked more alert than the others, but they opened the door to Dragon immediately.

  It was dark and cold inside. A single desk lamp was directed at the captive, a young male who sat miserably in the glare, shirtless and shivering. He was tied to a chair, surrounded by shadowy figures. One of them approached Dragon.