Secret of the Legion

by Marshall S. Thomas

  A double explosion, hammering at me like a mighty fist, rattling my teeth. Two more Legion hotcars, ripping past like snarling beasts, side by side, so close they were almost touching. Double trouble—I got a glimpse of one of the pilots behind the plex, an insect man in a full-face comtop. He didn't even look human. As they thundered away to the horizon something was building inside me. Then another two aircars rocketed overhead, cracking past like artificial thunderbolts, double blasts of raw nuclear power, the power of the Legion, tearing the world wide open.

  They left me in their wake, and I was screaming in savage joy. I'm not sure what I was screaming, but I was certainly out of my head. They were beautiful—the most beautiful things I had ever seen. I didn't doubt any more that I was a soldier of the Legion. Those aircars told me, clearer than Tara had ever done. And as I watched them, six thin white contrails high above, I knew I was going to die for the Legion—one way or another.

  I found Beta Ten inside the port, in a cavernous underground bunker full of aircars undergoing repairs. The facility was reverberating with deafening noises amidst a dizzying light show. Somebody pointed Redhawk out to me—he was working on an aircar engine with someone else, and he looked up in annoyance as I approached, glaring at me under long stringy reddish hair, sporting a scruffy beard. He was shining with sweat and splattered with slick. Then, as he recognized me, a fierce grin arose.

  "Three!" he shouted, turning away from the aircar. "How the hell are ya!" His companion looked up.

  "Eight One Nine!" I shouted, reminding him of my new alias. The bunker exploded in sound and lit up as if a rocket had just impacted. Someone was revving an aircar engine. Ten seized one of my shoulders in a fierce grip and was pounding the other with a fist. His features were transformed with joy—he was almost dancing. He shouted something to his co-worker and dragged me away eagerly.

  We regrouped in his cube. It was right in the port, down several levels but thoroughly soundproofed. It was small and untidy. Dirty laundry was strewn over the unmade bed. Solids of aircars glowed on the walls. Ten popped the tops on a couple of dox cups and gulped his like it was ale, spilling hot dox all over the little wall table.

  "Damn! It's great to see you alive, Thinker!" he said. "So you've got your memory back? Do you remember me now? Do you remember it all?"

  I sipped at my dox, leisurely. "I remember you, Redhawk. I've got most of my memory back. It's hard to tell, really. It's good to see you again. My last memory of you was when you were dropping us off in the aircar, on Uldo. You said you wanted to pick up twelve troopers when we called for evac."

  "Yeah—that's right! And you told me to keep it fast and low!"

  "But you didn't pick up twelve troopers, did you?"

  "I picked up nobody! The bastards said you had all been killed."

  "They lied. And that's why Tara wanted to run me through Quaba Seven before my reassignment to Andrion Two. She wants to zero in on any Loyalist penetrations of the LC. She wants to know exactly who sold us out, who backed ConFree in the effort to steal the Ship and the Star away from the Legion. And whether or not they're in LC ranks. Tara told me she briefed you on the Star."

  "Yes, she did," Redhawk said. "We'll be working together on this. What else did she say?"

  "She said there were plenty of dupes, but she wants to know who did it deliberately, knowing what they were doing. She's compiling a list of names, she said. The living dead, she called them. She was always good at that."

  "Did she give you any of those names?"

  "Only the top man. It's no secret who's ultimately responsible in ConFree—Director Kenton Cotter-Arc. Tara says he's the ConFree Council member who runs the Outvac, and that includes much of the Neutral Zone and most of the historical hot spots between ConFree and the System. It includes all of the sectors in the zone. He's a powerful man—all-powerful. According to Tara, the ConFree Council entrusts its Directors to run their areas. They're completely responsible—and completely accountable."

  "Tara told me about Cotter-Arc," Ten said. "She said she doesn't imagine the Council is too happy about the formation of the Lost Command. But Cotter-Arc has sold them on an alliance with the System to counter the O's, pictured the LC as opposing such an alliance, and promised the problem of the LC will be settled without bloodshed."

  "Not if I can help it!"

  "Yeah—it's a tall order for Cotter-Arc. Tara says his ass is on the line. If he fails, he pays the price."

  "The price?"

  "She told me death is the penalty for failure on that level."

  "She didn't tell me that," I said. "I get more motivated all the time."

  "So does Cotter-Arc. What kind of person is he? Did Tara tell you? We don't hear much out here."

  "Cotter-Ark? They call him KCA. He's an Inner—a civilian. He's never served in the Legion."

  "An Inner! You mean the absolute ruler of the Outvac is an Inner?" Redhawk's mouth gaped open.

  "Afraid so. It was a shock to me, too. I never knew what happened on that level. Tara says he's weird. Brilliant, but strange. He has some Cyrillian blood—the rest is Inner. Tara says it's messed him up. He appears to resent Outworlders and Assidics."

  "Wonderful! A ten-year-old kid could have picked a better leader! Does the Council know about the Star?"

  "We don't know. The people who interrogated me certainly do, and that means Cotter-Arc does. He might not want to tell the Council."

  "Does the Council view the Legion as a bigger threat than the System?" Redhawk asked.

  "We don't know that either. KCA certainly sees it that way. Tara isn't sure the Council even knows the full story about the Ship. If they approved KCA's plan, the galaxy is in serious trouble. If they didn't, it could be that KCA is in serious trouble. A desperate and dangerous man, she says."

  "What, specifically, does Tara want us to do here on Quaba Seven?"

  "KCA founded an outfit called Special Mission, under ConFree. We ran into some of those guys on Uldo—the Special Mission Strike Force. There's also Special Mission/Plans, which KCA runs, and SM/Ops, which directs SM/SF, the Strike Force. According to Tara, Special Mission is solely concerned with reducing the power of the Legion by increasing the power of the DefCorps and the System. The plan to turn the Ship over to the System was part of that. So is the hunt for the Star."

  "Scut! In the old days, behavior like that would have been called treason."

  "Yes…well, Tara is old-fashioned. She views it that way too. And what she wants you and me to do, here on Quaba, is to collect some more information. She wants to know who, in the Twelfth, betrayed us; and who they took their orders from, in the Twenty-Second, in Fleetcom, in Starcom." The 12th was our regiment, the 12th Colonial Expeditionary Regiment. It had died on Uldo, annihilated by the O's. The 22nd was the Black Legion, the Rimguard. Fleetcom was Outvac Fleet Command, headquartered right there on Quaba 7, and it supported Outvac Sector Command—Starcom.

  "Tara told me you had some names," I said. "She wouldn't tell me who. She hoards information like gold."

  Ten grinned. "I've noticed that. Yes, I've got some names—people who survived Uldo. People we can look up. Old friends from Uldo."

  "Yeah? Who's that?"

  "Remember the pair who prepped our A-suits just before our mission to the Mound? The Assidic guy and the little blonde girl?"

  "Remember them! I've always suspected them of sabotaging our tacnet power reserves."

  "The blonde is right here on Quaba."

  "Well, well…yes, I'd like to have a chat with her."

  "And you remember Recon Control?"

  "Yeah?"

  "The fellow who was in charge of Black Jade—our mission—is also here."

  "It might be interesting to talk with him, too."

  "All the rear echelon types survived, you see. Them…and me." He slammed down his dox cup. "Scut!"

  "Take it easy, Redhawk," I said. "Flying an aircar is not exactly rear echelon. You paid your dues on Andrion Three and Monger
a."

  "Yeah, and I was sitting on my ass in Uldo while Beta fried. Scut!" He got up and fumbled around in a desk console. He came up with a holcard and tossed it to me. "Thought you'd want this back."

  I placed it on the walltable and triggered it. It burnt to life in the air between us, flooded with light. It was Priestess and I, embracing. She was in faded camfax, melting against my chest, looking up at me with calm, trusting dark eyes, one hand on my shoulder. I was in a sweatie, totally calm, looking down at her with a faint smile. My heart gave a jolt. She was incredibly lovely. Flawless skin, gleaming black hair, tender lips, slightly parted. Deadman—how I missed her! I remembered it all now. It had not been so bad, before I got my memory back. Now it was like a knife in the heart, every time I thought of her.

  "You gave me that, just before the mission to the Mound," Redhawk said. "You asked me to keep it for you."

  I triggered it off, and the image faded. "Thanks." My mind swirled with memories.

  "Wish I could say I've found her—but I haven't."

  I was silent.

  "How's Whit doing?" Redhawk asked.

  "She's fine. She talks about you a lot."

  "Oh yeah?" A manic grin split his dirty face. "Well, can't say I blame her! That girl's got good taste! What does she say about me?" He was scratching his chest absently.

  "She worships you like a God."

  Ten laughed. "She's a honey, isn't she? I really like her. If we ever get outta this mess, I'm gonna disappear with her. Nobody will find us. Nobody."

  "Sounds like a good plan."

  Ten was resting his head on his hands, elbows on the table, looking out at me quizzically from behind long, stringy reddish hair. His face was pale and splotchy and spattered with slick.

  "What?" I asked.

  "I've got some news," he said. "Good news."

  "What's that?"

  "Valkyrie is alive. She's right here on Quaba."

  ***

  "Does this place have a name?" I asked. It was so dark I could hardly see a thing. Little sparks flickered in the gloom and a milky cloud of glitter gently swirled overhead. The air was charged with sweet, musky incense. The music crawled over my skin, overwhelming me, infinitely sad, totally overpowering.

  "Deep Dreams," Redhawk replied. "Try not to breathe anything."

  "Off limits," something female hissed. "Nasty boys!" As my eyes adjusted, I could see a girl with glistening purple skin, completely naked, so tall and spidery I thought I was imagining it. I could only gape at her as she faded into the smoky dark with laughing yellow eyes. I had never seen a female Cyrillian before, clothed or otherwise.

  "Let's see if we can find a table," Redhawk said.

  "I can't see a damned thing."

  A phantom with a pinpoint flash guided us to a table against one wall. She was an exquisite petite Outworlder girl, also completely nude. Shining, carefully clipped tawny hair, generous breasts, shapely legs, and a pink ribbon around her neck.

  "Legion?" she asked us over the music. "Deep Dreams welcomes you. You will be alerted if Town Patrol enters. Please relax and enjoy. May we serve a softside?"

  "No—blue ice, please," Redhawk responded. The girl faded into the dark. The eerie music continued, soaking into my bones. Shimmering clouds of ice crystals floated past our table—we could see nothing else.

  "What's a softside?" I asked.

  "Aphrodisiac," Redhawk replied. "You don't want it in this place. This is a fem bar. Males can look but don't touch, or a gang of very tough toms will toss you out on your ass."

  "I'll try to remember that."

  The naked sweety brought us blue ice, and we sipped deep dreams as a series of dim lights slowly came flickering to life out of the mists to focus on a slim, angelic blonde with very short hair and very long legs, clad in a pale filmy gown, dancing dreamily in the clouds.

  My mind floated away, back to Planet Hell, where Valkyrie and I had killed together in the swamps, and run to higher ground, terrified and exhausted, and paused in a cold forest on a misty hill. She had sunk her fangs into my neck and left fingernail tracks all over my back. Gamma Two, she had been then—my Two, forever and ever and ever. And then, on Andrion 2, Beta Nine had touched my heart with deep, dark child's eyes, and taken me away. Valkyrie was lost to me, forever. Gone, claimed by the Legion and her own fevered dreams. Valkyrie had seen too much, on Coldmark, on Andrion 3, on Mongera, on Uldo. She was Beta Eleven by then, but was gone from all of us, forever. In the end she had been as cold as a biogen, out for blood and praying for death. I had prayed too, for her. I still prayed for her, to Deadman. Valkyrie—alive! I had last heard her voice in the tunnels of the Mound. We had been trapped and doomed, Tara and Gildron and Twister and I, and the O was rushing at us like a dragon from the stars. I had called out our impending death, just for the record, and Snow Leopard had responded, miraculously. 'It's them, Eleven,' he had said. 'Get that O!' And Valkyrie, invisible, had replied. 'I'm on it, One!' she cried out. 'Goodbye and God bless you!' Hurling herself at the O. Then the starmass had overwhelmed us. Valkyrie—alive! I had never dared even hope it.

  Up on stage, the spidery Cyrillian girl had stripped the blonde and was licking her down like a frozen fruit bar, as the music rose to a shattering crescendo. I didn't pay them a whole lot of attention.

  Redhawk had called our waitress over and had launched into a long, involved speech. I couldn't hear a word. The waitress was bending over to listen, a puzzled expression, her large breasts bobbing gently a few mils from his face. He didn't appear to even notice them. It was really kind of funny. When she glided away, Redhawk leaned over to me. "She'll check," he said. "She confirmed Valkyrie comes here every night. She has a permanent cube here, she's hardly ever in her Legion quarters."

  "You've never contacted her?"

  "No. I just found out about her. And I didn't want to show up in her quarters. She's got a new designation now, Three Three Two, and she's assigned to Admin. It's a dumping ground for screw-ups and incompetents. Also a good place to hide somebody. No human wants to contact anybody in Admin."

  "You sure it's all right to approach her here?"

  "Best place on the planet. These people are total outcasts, and totally suspicious. They're not going to cooperate with anyone official."

  "So why is the waitress doing what you asked her?"

  "I tipped her fifty C. And she knows I'm not TP or Info. I've been here a few times before, just for chuckles. Never knew Eleven hung out here."

  The waitress appeared again, her perfect face completely neutral. "She doesn't know any Beta Ten," she said. "And she doesn't want to know any Beta Ten."

  "Damn," Redhawk said. "But she's here—can we see her?"

  "No," the waitress said, her face hardening. It sounded pretty final.

  "All right," Redhawk said. "Give her this. If she won't see us then, we'll leave. Tenners?" He handed her a holcard. She looked at it skeptically, but accepted it and turned away, displaying slim silky legs and a lovely, firm little bottom that no man would ever get to enjoy.

  "What was that, Redhawk?" I asked.

  "A shot of us all—Beta and Gamma—on Planet Hell. I always carry it."

  "Well, here's hoping they haven't psyched her." We raised our glasses to it, and drank blue ice. Up on stage the Cyrillian spider-woman was humiliating the leggy blonde waif. It was awful. I had to turn my eyes away. The music was like a great heartbeat. The whole room was throbbing. The blonde was whimpering.

  "She'll see you." Our tawny-haired waitress was back. "Follow me."

  She led us to a silent padded hallway somewhere far below the nightspot, lined with brightly colored doors. We stopped at number 44. Two short-haired, tough-looking, uniformed toms were lounging in the corridor, fingering their shockrods, watching us with some interest. The naked waitress pressed a doorbell and stepped back with disinterest, her task complete.

  The door slid open. Beta Eleven stood there, a cold elegant blonde, an angel from Hell, emerald eyes,
pale pink lips, slim and perfect, clad in a silken black robe. A black Legion cross was burnt right onto her forehead, the mark of the dead. She held Redhawk's holcard in one hand. As her eyes focused on Redhawk and me, the color rushed from her face and her head lurched back and she suddenly collapsed, falling heavily to the deck. Redhawk reached out to catch her, the waitress screamed, the two toms charged in waving their shockrods and shouting their battle cries, another girl appeared suddenly from inside the room, and for a couple of fracs it was very confusing indeed.

  "She fainted! It's not us!" I screamed, desperate to ward off the two man-haters with the shockrods. "She fainted! Help her!"

  "She fainted!" the waitress confirmed. The toms paused over us, hesitating, poised to pound out our brains. Redhawk had Valkyrie in his arms.

  "Give her some air," I said. "We're friendlies!" Valkyrie evidently had a roomie, a sweet little underaged thing with silky brown hair, hovering over her in concern, watching us warily with big brown eyes.

  "Valkyrie—wake up!" I pleaded. Her roomie produced a wet cloth and we daubed at Valkyrie's forehead. The toms were holding off and the waitress was still gaping at the scene.

  She came around slowly. Her eyelids flickered and opened. Redhawk and I were on our knees beside her. She stared at us in wonder. One hand came up and closed around Redhawk's greasy reddish hair. Another came right up to my face, her slim fingers running over my cheek.