March of the Legion

by Marshall S. Thomas

  "Fifty percent pressure," Redhawk noted. "Atmix confirmed."

  Priestess sat down, exhausted, and leaned against a wall. I ran through the contents of the datapak. The entire opsked was classified SECRET SYSRES NOCIV DEFOR DEFCON. The first few docs were mission orders for Karmion's unit—Hqs Company, Aircar Squadron 303, 4th Commandos, 15 DefCorps. I glanced through the memos; there were several references to an Oplan Gold.

  "I've got the external screen psyched. I think," Redhawk said.

  "Don't do anything until you're sure," Snow Leopard replied.

  The miscellaneous data was a lot more extensive than it should have been, I noted. I went into it. It wanted a password.

  "Priestess, did you get into the miscellaneous?"

  "Yes. That's the interesting part. The password is 'Jenny'."

  "Now how did you do that?"

  "There's a solid of his girl on his desk. And her name. It was just a guess—he was not very imaginative."

  I punched in Jenny and the data came up on the screen.

  It was a journal—the personal journal of Jeffleigh Karmion.

  "Main screen coming on," Redhawk reported.

  I raised my eyes. It glowed to life suddenly, taking our breath away.

  The entire lake was there, massive black slopes glittering with pumice, cloaked in smoke, the great incandescent, golden lake of lava bubbling and hissing, grinding along slowly, black smoky clouds close overhead, the wind tracing eerie patterns on the surface of the lava. Lightning arced down from the clouds, striking the lake. A spidery complex of nav lines overlay the image, invisible highways in the sky, and a status box revealed there were no aircars in sight.

  "Where are the aircars?" Redhawk asked himself.

  "Never mind the aircars," Snow Leopard replied. "We use this screen to find Warhound. Tell me what it can do."

  "Go to it, One," Psycho said dreamily. "Go to it. We find Warhound! That's our mission." He looked over his Manlink, holding it up to the light. Sometimes I thought Psycho was just as dangerous to us as to the enemy. But he had held together so far, I had to admit.

  I turned my attention back to the datapak, browsing through the entries. It quickly became apparent that Karmion had some problems with the mission.

  1444/02/01 SS. They awarded us a unit citation today. What reeking hypocrisy. A unit citation, for Vulcan Station. Conspicuous prudence, above and beyond. A unit citation awarded to slaves by cowards, from a very safe distance away. A justification for their own crimes. Why don't our leaders present the citation in person? It's for them, not for us. It's a unit citation for the System. This makes us physically sick. We'd rather die with what's left of our honor than live like this.

  "Full pressure," Redhawk announced. "Air is pure, full normal. Take a bite!"

  Snow Leopard straightened up before the control panel. "I'll try it." He cracked the visor of his faceplate open and took a breath. We all watched him silently.

  "Tastes fine to me," Snow Leopard concluded. "I'll take first watch—the rest of you can off helmets, but keep them within reach. Have we got water in the lines?"

  "That's a ten."

  "All right, one at a time can wash up in the heads. One at a time. Get it all done, 'cause we're not staying long." Snow Leopard closed his visor again and turned back to the control panel.

  "Redhawk," Priestess said, "I want you naked. I've got to work on your wounds. You should be first in the shower." We all laughed at Priestess's comment. When it came to her medical duties, Nine was so serious she sometimes did not seem quite real.

  "A tempting offer, Priestess," Redhawk responded. "But I'm too damned busy right now. Why don't you go first, and call me when you finish. Oh, and, uh…I want you naked, too."

  We popped our helmets, still laughing at Priestess's remark. The air stunk, a strange heady perfume, but we knew it was really us who stunk. I removed my helmet and hooked it on my u-belt. The air lanced through my nostrils and mouth like fire. My eyes stung and watered. We were all gasping, taking deep breaths. I looked at the others and grinned.

  Psycho was a mutant werewolf with yellow fangs and glittering lunatic eyes. Redhawk was a savage hairy gargoyle, bleeding and covered with slime. Priestess was a vaguely female zombie, dead pale splotchy skin and cold glazed eyes and dirty matted hair. Snow Leopard was still in helmet so we could not see him. I did not want to know what I looked like but judging by the others, I imagined I had lost my dashing good looks.

  "Psycho, stay here," Snow Leopard ordered. "We're going to use this screen to search for Warhound. Thinker, accompany Priestess and secure the area while she cleans up. Redhawk, you're next after Priestess. Now, tell me how you work the zoom. I want to search every fraction of this crater for Warhound."

  I accompanied Priestess into the living quarters. The lights were on and the floor was sticky. Priestess chose a cube at random. The door was open, as we had thoroughly searched the area. It was even smaller than a Legion cube—there was barely room to turn around. The head was a tiny closet with a toilet, sink, and shower. Priestess tossed her helmet and E on the bed. She reached into the head and hit the shower tab. The line coughed once and then a needle spray of water hissed steadily from the nozzle. It was so lovely a thrill ran over my skin.

  "Help me out of this A-suit, Thinker. Lord, I stink like a cesspool. Look at that—soap! Towels! Oh, save me!" I helped her unlink. She was sticky with sweat and trembling with anticipation.

  "Wait for me, Thinker—don't go. I may be awhile," she said.

  "I'll be right here," I replied, taking a position in the doorway to the cube. Priestess flashed me a weary smile and stepped into the head and the door slid shut.

  I expected a long wait. Fortunately I had some good reading material. I sat in the doorway, my E strapped to my chest, and read through the next entry in the datapak.

  1444/02/07 SS—Frantic activity, and all of it correct, all by the regs. We are doing terrific work, but we keep asking ourself how this benefits the System. We have concluded that the System wants the status quo maintained in this sector. And it is willing to sacrifice us for the status quo. But surely STRATCOM realizes that our activities here are not maintaining the status quo—to the contrary, as soon as these creatures are ready, the System will have to deal with its monstrous creation.

  So what is our mission? It is to strengthen the V until we are no further threat to them. It is to betray our own, in the name of galactic peace. We are Peacemakers, they tell us, holding the Dogs of War at bay. But the dogs are growing stronger, for we feed them with our flesh and blood.

  Soon they will tear out our throats. Why are we here? We must be cursed by the Gods!

  "Well, I don't see a thing." It was Redhawk, muttering to himself.

  "Not a sign of life!" Snow Leopard, in awe. "This is really strange."

  "He's out there," Psycho declared. "He's out there somewhere." They were searching for Warhound on the screen. I felt sick inside. How could he have survived? It was a miracle that any of us did. How could we hope for more?

  We'd have spotted him by now if he had survived. No, Warhound was gone—at the bottom of the lava. A black depression settled over me. Beta Six, Warhound—he was as faithful as a dog. He was young and trusting, always did what he was told, a good and dependable soldier of the Legion. How could it end like this? He had his whole immortal life ahead of him. He had a crush on Gamma Five, Scrapper, but she didn't like him. He'd tell me his troubles, and I'd give him advice. And now he was gone. He was a friend; I should have told him how I felt, but we never did that in the Legion. Now I regretted it. I gazed blankly at the datapak. I had been reading it without thought.

  …death, death, death! Every day, hovering right outside. Black ships, and black skies. Lunacy! To think we have any control over events, or that we are accomplishing anything at all, except for the V. Lunacy! We are slaves, trapped and terrified. Abandoned, by STRATCOM, by the System itself. We are still useful, we know, to the V, but the instant that
ends, we will all die like bacteria. The Old Man is already gone. It called a meeting—fool! We told it not to do so, but it insisted, and now it's gone. A troublesome bacteria. That was five full days ago, and we just huddle here, terrified. We don't even dare ask about it. The V can have us for lunch, whenever they want.

  The V—that was Systie slang for the O. We called them the Omnis. The System called them the Variants. It would never have occurred to the Legion to try and communicate with the O—except with antimats. But then we had a lot more experience fighting the Omnis than the System did. It was becoming increasingly clear why that was—the Systies had done a deal with the O's, a dirty, secret deal, right here on Andrion 3. And the unitium mines on Andrion 2 were part of it. Genetic suicide, for our species—death to the children! I got dizzy just thinking about it.

  "Thinker." The door to the head slid open. Priestess posed in the doorway, completely naked, soapsuds glistening all over her heavenly body, long dark hair clean and wet, her skin glowing with life, sparkling angel eyes and a pink tongue teasing me behind even white teeth. Her breasts were perfect, rosy pink nipples, long slim lovely legs knocking my eyes out. The shower was still on behind her. She pirouetted once, showing me her petite, tender rear, smiling back over her shoulder. I dropped the datacase and scrambled violently to my feet, armor ringing against the door frame.

  Nine giggled once and disappeared as the door to the head slid shut abruptly. I hurled myself against it.

  "Priestess! Open up! Open up!" I pounded on the door with my armored fists, leaving dents in the metal.

  "What's wrong, Thinker? Answer up!" It was Snow Leopard, alerted by my shouts.

  "Uhh…nothing!" I answered quickly. "Nothing at all! It's all right—uh, it's nothing."

  "Well, keep it down! And let us know when Priestess is through."

  "Right! Right." I leaned against the door to the head, breathing hard. On the other side was the most lovely creature in the galaxy.

  "Priestess…" I whispered feverishly. "Open up. Please?"

  "No! You're all smelly. I just cleaned up!" She giggled again.

  "Are you trying to torture me, Priestess?" My blood raced. "What did you do that for?"

  "Didn't you like it?" She sounded disappointed.

  "Yes! Yes, oh yes, I liked it! It's just, uh, well—let me in. All right?"

  "Don't be silly! We don't have time to play! Besides, I have a date already—with Redhawk. Remember?"

  "Priestess, why are you doing this to me?" I was so frustrated I trembled.

  "I just wanted to remind you what you're missing," she replied through the door. "If we survive this place, I'm yours, Three. I hope you appreciate me."

  ###

  "All right, listen up." Beta One never had to raise his voice to get our attention. We gathered around the main panel of the aircar control center. We had all cleaned up, and Priestess had prepped Redhawk's wounds. Now we were all back in our stinking A-suits, helmets still off, E's within easy reach. We had turned the place upside down looking for clues to what the Systies were doing there, and we'd found plenty, stacks of datapaks and datacards and minicards full of info for the analysts to ponder, should we ever return. We were stuffing our faces with Systie rats, hot food and cold drinks, and loving every frac. We had raided their kitchen, and the working surfaces of the control panel were littered with steaming meal trays and icy cans of soft drinks.

  I felt almost human.

  The chilling spectacle of the lava lake stretched out before us on the main screen. A brilliant explosion of lava boomed out of the luminous golden lake even as we watched. A faint shudder rattled the walls. The skies were dark and smoky, and fires burned on black mountain ranges in the hazy distance. We could hear a faint howling.

  "We've used the screen to search the entire area for Warhound," One informed us bleakly. "We haven't found him." We greeted the news in silence. One appeared calm and rational, in icy control. His white-blond hair was clean and wet, and blue veins throbbed on his pale flesh. His pink eyes were cold and distant. "The screen gave us the best possible chance at finding him. It appears that he's not there. I believe we have to conclude it is likely he's at the bottom of the lake."

  "We're not there, either," Psycho pointed out quietly. "But that doesn't mean we're at the bottom of the lake."

  "That's right, Snow Leopard," I added. "He could be under cover somewhere. Our camfax is damned good, and there are plenty of nooks and crannies out there. It would be only natural for him to get under cover."

  "Nevertheless," he said, "we have to proceed on the assumption that he's gone. Unless we go to full power, there's nothing further we can do to find him. And if we go to full power, we're dead. Now, I can promise you we are going to go to full power, as our final effort to locate Beta Six. But the time for that has not yet arrived. First, we have a mission to accomplish. And we can't do that if we're dead."

  We pondered that without comment. One was right—what else could we do? Chances were high that Six was dead. And if we stayed in the neighborhood much longer, we would be, too.

  "We have to move out," One concluded, "as rapidly as possible. This is an extremely dangerous area. I consider it a miracle that we're still alive. Our antis fell right here. This was our primary target. Now, I've been getting fragments of info on the command channel, but it's so thoroughly shot by deceptors that I can't tell exactly what's happening. One thing I can tell, though—the assault is still underway. There are Legion units fighting their way through the Omni base, and that means they are inside the base, and under the lava. That's where we should be. Ten, report."

  "Right," Redhawk responded. "The aircar station is located about sixty mikes below us. There are two personnel elevators and a freight elevator that should get us there. All still functional. Air and pressure full normal as well." His wild eyes flickered over the readings, shaggy red hair hanging over one eye. "There are two aircars on-site, but neither is in ready status."

  "Why not?" Snow Leopard asked.

  "Don't know," Redhawk replied. "I can probably get a status report if you give me a little more time."

  "There's only two aircars?"

  "The other bays are all empty."

  Aircars! My blood stirred; we could all feel it. Priestess put down her drink. Psycho raised his head and blinked expressionless eyes.

  "Can you get us a visual?"

  "Affirmative."

  "Not yet! Is this aircar garage a part of the starport?"

  "That's a twelve. The launching ports open in the side of the caldera, right into the air, slightly above the level of the lake. The actual starport—or what's left of it—is below the lake, and launches of major spacecraft are probably made through a central launch tube that breaks surface when necessary. Landings would be the same routine. That's my conjecture." He scratched at his scruffy beard.

  "And the starport—you can get me an internal visual of that, as well?"

  "Ten high, Beta. Sure looks like it."

  That one would knock us on our asses, I knew. An internal visual, on an Omni starport! The aircar control center was a Systie installation, but nobody—nobody—had ever seen the inside of an O starport, and lived to tell about it. My adrenalin was going again. I picked up a cold juice, and tried to get it to my lips without spilling any. It felt as if my muscles were just barely connected.

  The datapak was on the console before me. My eyes strayed to the next entry.

  1444/03/11 SS—We are doomed. We share it with no one, but we know it. Death stares us in the face, every morning. Our rotation times have come and gone, and still STRATCOM is on the screen making promises. The others believe. They have to believe, for the sake of sanity. But we no longer believe. Show your faces here, STRATCOM, and we'll believe you.

  "Soldiers of Peace. We are slaves. We saw the V only once, and that was enough. Our whole body stopped functioning. At first we thought they were trying to kill us, but later we decided they were just saying hello. We will never recove
r.

  Chapter 5:

  Under Strange Stars

  Every once in awhile, I get so much adrenalin in my system that I just kind of freeze up and have a lot of difficulty moving my body. This was one of those times.

  "You girls ready?" Snow Leopard asked.

  "Oh, yeah." Psycho and I were both dangling in a darkened elevator shaft like a couple of black robot spiders, rapelling silently down our lifelines to the aircar hanger far below. Snow Leopard did not want to risk using the elevator until we knew the hanger was secure. We needed the elevator because Redhawk could not walk.

  "Race ya," Psycho said, dropping like a stone.

  "Scut! Slow down!" I triggered the catch and the cable sang through the mounts. I dropped, slowing gently, boots glancing off the walls. The shaft was dark and cold and full of thick oily cables. My A-suit whispered to me, and green readouts glowed on my faceplate.

  "Negative life. Proceed."

  I hissed past Psycho, and he was a deadly camfax shadow, just another shadow, all the power of the Legion, coiled like a snake. We were nearing the entrance to the hanger. I slowed and stopped.

  "All right, Psycho—go. Deadman!" I was breathing heavily, leaning off the wall, my E at the ready.

  "Come on, Thinker, admit it—you love it, don't you?" Psycho giggled, and I could see him coming at me from above, an obscene black beast armored for war. My E was set on flame. Psycho flashed past me, dropping, his cable whistling eerily.

  We had seen the hanger on the screen, cold and still, undamaged, fully lighted, two aircars in the repair bays. Not a sign of life. Then we tried the internal view of the Omni starport, but the screen was dead. Perhaps the starport was crushed flat, popped open by our antis, then torn apart by the lake of molten lava. I wondered how many O's had died in the disaster. It made me feel good, thinking about all those dead O's, knowing that we had contributed.