Chris Bunch - The Last Legion

THE LAST LEGION

by Chris Bunch

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 other 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 district, 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

surprise, 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 father's 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 once 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.

'Good aft, friend.'

''Day,' the young man said. 'I'm interested in joining up.'

'Well, this is certainly the place,' Kerle said. 'And you'll never

regret it if you do. The Confederation needs good men, and will make you

proud you decided to serve your government.'

'What I'm really interested in is travel.'

'Then the Confederation is your ticket. I've seen twenty, thirty worlds,

and I've only been in ten years, made tweg in the first four, and should

be up for senior tweg when the next promotion list comes out,' Kerle

said. 'Not that you have to enlist for that long. Standard term is only

four Earth-years.'

'Reasonable.' Garvin Jaansma said. 'Gives everyone a chance to see if

they get along.'

'Any particular trade or skill you'd be interested in?'

'I'm not much on working inside. Prefer to be outdoors if I can. What

about that?' The young man was pointing at a small model of an assault

lifter. Kerle picked it up.

'That's a Grierson. Used in Armored Infantry. The Grierson's the

standard assault vehicle, called an Aerial Combat Vehicle, an ACV.

Carries two attack teams. Chainguns here and here. Rocket pod here.

There's a whole lot of different configurations. Ultrareliable. Dual

antigrav units under here, give it about a thousand meters overground

lift. We use it for patrols, or attack. In the assault it'd be backed up

with heavy lifters, gunships like that model of a Zhukov there, and of

course there'd be other assault lifters with it. You can even modify it

into an in-system spaceship. You could command one of these in a year.

maybe less. Five million credits the Confederation'd trust you with.

Plus twenty men's lives, which is the real price. Not many jobs give

someone your age that kind of responsibility,' Kerle said, sounding

truly impressed.

'Sounds interesting,' Jaansma said.

'A couple of things first,' Kerle said, toes curling inside his mirror

bright boots, anticipating the bad news. 'Have you talked to your family

about this?'

'They don't mind,' Jaansma said. 'Whatever I think is best for me

they'll go along with. Anyway, I'm eighteen, so it's my decision, isn't

it?'

'The first big one you can make,' Kerle agreed. 'Another question. I

don't suppose you've had any trouble with the authorities?'

'None at all.' The answer came quickly.

'You're sure? Not even a joyriding or maybe a fight or two, or getting

caught with alk or a snort? If it's minor, we can generally get

clearance.'

'Nothing whatsoever.'

The young man's smile was open, sincere.

CHAPTER 4

Capello/Centrum

The Malvern bulged far overhead, dwarfing the line of men trudging

toward its gangway. Garvin Jaansma gaped upward.

'Move along, dungboot,' a cadreman snapped. 'The Confederation don't

want you to break your neck before you even get trained.'

'Good advice, Finf,' a voice grated, 'you being the experienced star

rover and all. I'm surely admiring all your decorations and such.'

The junior noncom flushed. His uniform breast was as slick as his shaven

head. 'Quiet, you.'

The man who'd spoken stared hard, and the finf flinched back as if he'd

been struck.

'Keep on moving,' he muttered, and scurried away.

The man was big in any direction, not fat, but heavy, solid. His face

was set in a perpetual scowl under his forward-combed, thinning black

hair. A scar ran down one cheek and faded out in the middle of his thick

neck. He appeared to be in his early thirties. He wore unshined half

boots, heavy black canvas dungarees, a green tunic that would have been

expensive new, sometime ago, and had a small, battered bag at his feet.

There was a military-looking stencil on it: KIPCHAK, PETR.

He eyed Jaansma and the recruit beside him, snorted, and turned away.

'I want to learn how to do that,' the other recruit said in a low voice.

'Do what?'

'Melt 'em with a look like that guy did. Cheaper'n a blaster and not

nearly as convictable.'

Garvin extended his hand, palm up, and the other man repeated the

greeting.

'Garvin Jaansma.'

'Njangu Yoshitaro.'

Garvin considered the other young man, who was about his age and height,

dark-skinned with close-cropped black hair and Asiatic features. He wore

charcoal trousers and a pale green shirt. Both fit poorly and looked

cheap. He had a collarless wind-breaker over his shoulder. Yoshitaro

reminded Jaansma of an alert fox or hoonsmeer.

'Did anybody say where we're going?' he asked.

'Of course not,' Njangu said. 'Recruit scum don't get told shit 'til

they have to know it, which I guess'll be whenever we get where we're

going.'

'What about training?' Jaansma said. 'I enlisted for Armor. and so far

all I've done is polish toilets.'

The older man turned back.

'And that's all you'll do 'til you get to your parent unit. The

Confederation's got a new policy. They ship your young ass to your home

regiment, and let them whip you into shape.'

'That isn't the way it is in the holos,' Njangu said.

'Damn little is,' the man said. 'It's 'cause the Confederation's falling

apart, and they don't have time or money to take care of the little

things like they used to.'

'Falling apart?' Garvin said incredulously. 'Come on!'

Garvin had seen troubles in his wanderings, but the Confederation itself

in trouble? That was like saying the stars were burning out tomorrow, or

night might not follow day. The Confederation had existed for more than

a thousand years, and would no doubt exist for another ten thousand.

'I spoke clearly,' Kipchak said. 'Falling apart. The reason you don't

see it is because you're right at the center of things You think an ant

knows somebody's about to dump boiling water on its nest? Or a wygor

ever realizes what the skinner wants?'

Neither young man understood the references.

'What do you think all the riots are about?' he went on.

'What riots?'

'You didn't watch any 'casts while you were farting around in the 'cruit

barracks?'

'Uh... no,' Yoshitaro said. 'I don't pay much attention to the news.'

'Better start. A good holo-flash'll generally clue you how deep the shit

is you're about to get tossed into, and maybe even give you time to pack

hip boots.

'People are rioting, tearing things up because they can't get things.

Centrum being a high-class admin center, nobody bothers to grow

anything. Which means everything from biscuits to buttwipe gets shipped

in, not produced locally. Since the system's showing cracks, sometimes

those shipments don't get here in time for dinner.

'It's real hard to accept you're on the greatest planet in the universe,

like the holos say, if you can't afford beans and bacon.'

'How come you know so much, anyway?' Njangu said, just a bit

billigerently.

This time the look came at him. But he didn't quail. Kipchak let his

glower fade down.

''Cause I pay attention,' he said. 'Something you better learn. For

instance, I could tell you where we're going, what unit we're headed

for, and even what the pol/sci setup is there. If I wanted to. Which I

don't, much.' Perhaps he was about to add more, but they'd reached the

ship's gangway.

'Your name and homeworld,' a synthed voice intoned.

'Petr Kipchak,' he growled. 'Centrum, when it suits me.'

'Noted,' the robot said. 'Compartment sixteen. Take any bunk. Next.'

And the huge Malvern swallowed them.

The compartment stretched into dimness. It was filled with endless four

high rows of bunks, with small lockers under the bottom one, and, like

Chris Bunch - The Last Legion

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