Secret of the Legion (6 page)

By the time Whit finally restored the polarization, banishing the images, I was stunned and twitching.

"How's it doing, Beta Three?" It was almost a whisper. I did not answer. My eyes were full of tears.

"That was the Two Sisters," she explained. "Cinta showed it to me once—the bitch! We were in the vicinity, so we thought we'd give it a look-see. Our own idea. What does it think?"

I didn't answer. The stars—scut! They had me, now.

"Thought it might trigger something, Beta Three—that's all. It's a soldier of the Legion, after all. It belongs out here with the stars. Not down on Nimbos, in the gutter."

The stars! I closed my eyes, overwhelmed. Soldier of the Legion—I was a soldier of the Legion!

"Sorry if it didn't work, Three. We'll try something else. Pretty, wasn't it?"

***

"Thinker! I'll be damned! It
is
you! Deadman's death! I'll be damned!" Beta Ten was bug-eyed with amazement, peering at me in wonder from the d-screen of Cinta's impossible starlink. I was somewhat taken aback as well. Beta Ten was a pale, intense young man with splotchy skin, long tangled reddish hair and a scruffy, sparse beard. According to Whit his warname was Redhawk. He didn't look like a mass murderer. He didn't even look like a soldier, but he was wearing Legion camfax.

"We did it, Tennie—just for it!" Whit was squirming beside me, beaming at the screen.

"You're a bloody genius, girl—a magician! Thinker! How are ya?" A manic grin split his face as he addressed me again.

"I'm fine," I said. "Uhh…afraid I don't remember you. And who's Thinker? I thought my name was Beta Three."

"You're
Thinker
, Three! It's your warname! The bastards psyched you! They erased you, Three! They erased everybody, the whole squad, one way or another. They just wiped us out, wrote us right out of history. Well, they're not going to get away with it, Three! We owe it to One to get the past back. That's why I'm doing what I'm doing for Cinta—for the LC. You think I like this crap? Skulking in the dark, nosing around in Central Datacall? I hate every frac! But I'm going to see those cowardly ConFree Inner bastards don't get away with it! I tell you, Thinker, I've never seen such bad morale before—it's so bad it's close to rebellion. And they know it! That's why they don't dare move on the LC. They're afraid they'll give the orders and nobody will respond! Man, that would be a first for the Legion, wouldn't it? Remember Andrion Three? Remember Mongera? Remember Uldo? We charged into Hell for the Legion, for ConFree, blind. And now they want us to target our own! Deto! They can haul me away in cuffs; they can put me up against the wall. I'm not worried! Nobody will pull the trigger!"

"Afraid I don't remember any of those places," I responded calmly. Redhawk was twitching on screen. His pale blue eyes were glowing, and little specks of saliva were visible at the corners of his mouth.

"Get me the hell out of here, girl," he said wearily to Whit. "I'm sick of it!"

"That's the plan, Tennie," Whit responded soothingly. "Nothing's changed. But first it's Yida, then Dindabai—and only then do we…re-unite." She reached out with slender fingers and her tapered silver nails clicked lightly against the d-screen.

"You'd better wear your dispo panties, girl, 'cause they're not going to survive that event!"

"That's affirmative, Tennie." A faint smile from Whit—she was blushing.

"Thinker, welcome back!" Ten appeared to have snapped out of his depression. "Whit told me she's briefed you on Beta. Now let me tell you what I've found out. I'm right smack in the heart of a Legion hive here, in Aircar Control for Quaba Station. We're on Quaba Seven, and Quaba Station is Hqs for Fleetcom—Fleet Command for the Black Fleet. We support Outvac Sector Command, or what's left of it after the LC broke away. As I think you know, Fleetcom is sitting on the fence right now, claiming to be loyal to ConFree. And I'm dead meat if they detect what I'm doing. Anyway, here's what happened. I was your aircar driver on Uldo. When the dust settled after your attack on the Mound, they ordered me to stay put. I promptly disobeyed orders. I flew directly to the Mound, and walked right in. The Legion had secured the site, but it was an awful mess. I found Merlin. He was dead—the medics were recovering the body. Then the security folks caught up with me and carted me away." He paused, and wearily shook his head.

"Merlin," I said. It meant nothing to me.

"Merlin was Beta Four," Ten continued. "He was my blood brother. And yours." He sighed, then continued. "I was detained for awhile. Then a couple of ConFree drones dropped in with a Legion escort, and gave me the word. They told me there had been no survivors. Everyone in Beta was killed—that's what they said. Then they reminded me that the entire mission was classified Ultra Cosmic and I was to never discuss it with anyone. They said there were details about the mission that could not be revealed to me, or to anyone else. They said it was so important they were going to change my Legion serial number. They said my old identity had to end. Beta Ten's name went up on the death list, on the Legion Monument to the Dead, and I was reassigned here with a new designation.

"Well, my slot here is not too demanding. I had a lot of time on my hands. So I was checking out the Monument one day, calling up designations on Datacall. Anyone can do it. Well, I found my number all right. Dead as hell. Then I called up everybody in the squad. And, sure enough, they were all there—all listed as killed on Uldo. 'Died in Service'. That's what it said. You too, Thinker. But Cinta had been with you, and she was not listed. Neither was Gildron. I figured it was because they were not officially part of the squad. But I wondered about that. And I thought—well, how do I know any of them are really dead? I'm listed, and I'm not dead. The only one I know who died for sure is Merlin, because I saw his body myself.

"In Hqs I had access to all personnel records for Outvac Sector Command. There's nothing sensitive about it. I started with my own records—both the old file and the new file. The genetic ID had been altered, of course, but there were certain physical similarities between the two allegedly different individuals that were exactly the same. Height, eye color, blood type—all the same. They hadn't bothered to change it. They probably figured it would be an impossible task to track anyone down using those guidelines alone. And it's not until you get into the file that you've got the holo. A different pix, but it was certainly me.

"Well, I can tell you, they had good reason to be confident. I called up the old files for every member of Beta. They all ended with combat deaths on Uldo. I took down basic physical features—sex, height, blood type, and anything else I thought they might have not bothered to change. I did one person at a time, scanning the entire sector personnel listing. I wasn't expecting any luck on the more unusual features, like Snow Leopard's pink eyes or Dragon's tattoos, but I tried anyway.

"It took a long, long time, but I had plenty of time. I'm not finished yet, but I've already made one good hit. I didn't find you, Thinker, but I found Dragon—Beta Eight. Eight is alive, and he's in Systie vac, just like you. Yida, specifically. They changed his designation, psyched out a false bio for him, and then recorded his resignation from the Legion. Dragon, resigning from the Legion—ridiculous! The Legion was his life. But there's no doubt it was him. It was Dragon, glaring at me right out of the holo, tattoos and all, even though the tattoos were not mentioned in the physical description. Dragon survived Uldo, Thinker. He's alive, and he's on Yida. Voluntarily or not, I don't know."

"Cinta found it," Whit cut in.

"That's right," Redhawk continued. "I learned he was alive and had left the Legion. I also had the date and place. That was enough to track him out of Legion vac. He headed straight for the System—I had no idea where. Damned if I knew why he'd do that. I brooded about it for quite awhile. I was completely helpless. I couldn't contact anyone, and the last port of call listed for Cinta's ship, the
Maiden
, was Uldo. After that, it just vanished from the records.

"That's when Whit walked into my office. That's when my world turned right around. Cinta tracked Dragon to Yida—she's got the System wired."

"Sounds like she's got the Legion wired as well," I commented.

Redhawk laughed. "I suppose so. This link is a real kick. Anyway, that's why you're headed for Yida. I wish I could come with you but I can't. We want you and Whit to contact Dragon. Bring him with you, if he'll come. Tell him what you know about Beta. Ask him what he knows. We don't know what his story is—maybe they've psyched him, too. If they have, Cinta wants to un-psych him. Just like she's going to do for you."

"Why is Cinta being so helpful to you?"

"I've been extremely helpful to her. And don't forget she was with Beta on the Uldo mission. She doesn't talk about it much, but she's rather intense on the subject. When I told her about Dragon and said I wanted to contact him, she agreed completely—and mounted a major expedition to recover both you and Dragon."

"Was it Cinta who tracked me to Nimbos?"

"Yeah. She found me, and she found you. I don't know how. But she's got the resources of the Lost Command behind her."

"So we're off to Yida."

"Right," Redhawk said. "Damn, it's good to have you back, Three. Damn!" He was positively glowing.

"Yida," I said.

"You, and Whit. Bring him back alive, guys!"

"We'll do that," Whit said.

"And then get me outta here! I can hardly wait!"

"Likewise," Whit said. "See ya!" And she cut the connection.

***

I awoke with a start, and almost brained myself again on the overhead. The images were still swirling around in my head. They just wouldn't go away. The adrenalin was still flowing, and my guts were churning. It was pitch black. The deck was icy. I sat on the edge of my little bunk, mindless light years from everything I knew, rushing into the future. I strained to remember it. I knew it wasn't a dream. It was the past, my own secret past, whispering in my ears.

And it was all flames, superhot burning gas roaring all around me, shrieking blue-hot white-hot brilliant incandescent flames, swirling everywhere. There was no escape and I was running right into it. She was up ahead, lost and doomed, burning, holding out one glowing metal hand. I could almost see her face, behind the mask, pleading, crying, calling out my name—"Thinker! Thinker! Thinker!"

My name. I pulled out the wallchair and straddled it, fumbling at the desk console in the dark until I found the holcard. I activated it and both squads appeared, Beta and Gamma, shimmering in a brilliant cone of light.

My name—Thinker. That was what those voices had called me, back in the Agra Workers' Hostel. Surely that was it. And now I was remembering it. Was it just suggestion? Redhawk had told me my warname. Or was it real? Real? Since when is a dream real? But my past was real—more real than the present.

Beta—and Gamma. Faces from the past, unknown to my present self. A gang of young soldiers in camfax fatigues splattered with mud, grinning and excited, celebrating something. The high morale was obvious. My eyes were drawn to a girl with tangled black hair and dark liquid eyes. She was clutching a muddy medpak, looking vaguely off into the distance.

Was this the girl who had been calling my name in my dreams, from out of those impossible flames? I knew the designations by now. She was Beta Nine, Priestess, the medic. Why did I think it was her? There were other girls. Perhaps I should ask Whit about Beta Nine. Or—perhaps I shouldn't. The dreams were all I could believe. They were all I had that was real. I didn't want any further input. No, perhaps I should not ask.

Beta Nine—Priestess. Why Beta Nine?

Chapter 3
The Priest

"Yida Traffic Control, P.S.
Stardust
locked on to approved orbit, acknowledge."

"
Stardust
, Yida. Confirm. Welcome to Yida. Stand by for Customs Inspection."

"Yida,
Stardust
. Confirm."

I was on the bridge with Whit and Pandaros. We had quite a view. Yida was up ahead, a massive, luminous ice-blue orb streaked with filmy, wispy clouds. It was glittering brightly, burning my eyes. It was astounding, approaching that blinding, gigantic world in complete silence. I knew there were millions of people down there, but from the
Stardust
, in space, nothing could be seen of the human population. Everything our race had built was invisible. We were of no more consequence to this planet's natural history than a momentary plague of ants. I knew whatever we had done down there would ultimately dry up and blow away with the wind, in a cosmic instant. And then it would be just as if we had never been there. I felt about as significant as a mote of dust, approaching that great planet.

"It's quite a place," Whit informed me from the command chair. "Heavy grav, and cold as a bitch. The star's a white dwarf, and this is the only surviving planet—it's barely within the current life zone. There are huge atmospheric generation plants here, churning out oxygen. This planet wants to die, but the System won't let it."

"What's the attraction?"

"It's mineral-rich. It's so important to the System's war effort that the Governor is a Mocain, and there's a Mocain DefCorps garrison. They've imported a lot of VS to work the mines. There's plenty of trouble with the VS and there's trouble with the original settlers too—they're Outworlders."

Mocains. They were the Greenies, the real power behind the System, hated and feared by billions. I hadn't even seen one on Nimbos. They normally got other races to do their dirty work for them. At the Oz they had been presented as benevolent and wise, concerned only with bringing peace and equality to the galaxy. And the VS—that stood for "Voluntary Service". The VS were said to be the ultimate idealists, giving up everything for service to the System. The CrimCon claimed the VS were slaves. I wasn't sure—but I knew there was a lot of pressure for System citizens to sign up for VS.

Why would Beta Eight come to such a world? It didn't look like a good environment for an ex-Legion trooper. On the other hand, why had I gone to Nimbos? There was no way of knowing Eight's situation until we met him.

"Three…there's something it should know," Whit was saying, "about Dragon."

"What about him?"

"Well…it knows that Tennie—I mean Redhawk—is our…well…we're…um…friends."

"I gathered that."

"Well, Dragon was with it and Priestess when it recovered us from Katag."

"Yes, I've read about that."

"Well, Dragon is rather…forceful."

"Forceful?"

"Yes. On the trip to Veda, Dragon…well, it visited us in our cube."

"He did?"

"Yes. Well, what's a girl supposed to do? We didn't invite it! Anyway, it was very nice."

"I see." So why was she telling me?

"We just want it to know, Three. We're very fond of Dragon. And we want very much to get it off Yida, if it'll come."

"Fine."

"We're also very fond of Redhawk. We'd hate to hurt it. Dragon knows about Redhawk, of course, but Redhawk doesn't know about Dragon. We hope it will keep our little secret. All right?"

"Fine. Don't worry." I decided I was probably going to need a scorecard, to keep track of Whit's social life. I wondered vaguely if her earlier invitation to me still stood.

***

"How in Deadman's name do people live like this?" I asked. We were standing before what looked like a giant warehouse, struggling against the grav, blinking in the smog. It was mid-day but the sky was black and it was sleeting—the pavement was slick with ice. I felt about twice as heavy as normal. My eyes and throat were burning. I snapped the oxy mask in place.

"It's the chlorine," said Whit. "They say the body adjusts—but it's hard on newcomers. Better ease up on the oxy—it's best to get used to it."

Nelson had parked the aircar nearby. He was one of Whit's Cyrillians, and he was staying with the car. Pandaros was back on the
Stardust
, safely in orbit. Our senso op was in high gear and vast amounts of credits were flowing into the
Stardust's
coffers and into the pockets of Yida's customs officials and a host of other System bureaucrats. Senso was big business, and the only losers were the buyers. Meantime, Whit and I were tracking down Dragon—Beta Eight.

"Is this the place?" I could barely make out the sign, through the yellow smog:

SWEETFLESH FARM
Wholesale and Retail Breeder of Pure Flesh Stock
SWEETFLESH INDUSTRIES RG.
Live or Cooked Flesh Stock
Smoked Sweetflesh
Skinned Flesh Stock and Sweetflesh Fillets

"This was its first and only employment on record," Whit replied. "It didn't stay here long. Where it went from here we don't know." She took a whiff from her oxygen mask, then stuffed it back inside her jacket. "Let's do it."

We pushed in past a large, loose door, leaking water all over a dirty tile floor. It was colder inside than out. An oversized goon with a bad haircut, a bloody apron and massive bare arms looked up at us from a counter stacked high with packages.

"Help ya?" he asked hoarsely, pushing aside a comic book.

"Can we see the manager?" I asked.

"What's it about?"

"We're trying to find a fellow who used to work here. Is the manager in?"

"This ain't no lost and found. If you don't want to buy sweetflesh, take a walk."

"The manager will like us," I said, sliding a hundred-C credmark over the counter into the thug's pudgy fingers. "We promise."

"Like I said, we'll see if he's in." The goon made the credmark disappear and picked up an intercom. There was another sign up on the wall behind him:

FRESH AND FROZEN SWEETFLESH
Whole Fresh Stock
Fillets, Veal, Steaks, Brain
Live Flesh Stock and General Sweetflesh Products
Frozen, Fresh, Dried, Smoked and Cooked Sweetflesh

"…want to see you and they're giving away money," the gorilla was saying. "Yeah? Right." He hung up the intercom. "End of the hall," he gestured with his thumb, opening up his comic book again.

"What's sweetflesh?" I whispered to Whit as we walked down a cold wet tiled hall lined with doors.

"Take a look," she said, pausing by a door, her fingers digging into my arm. Through a frosty glass panel we could barely make out several rows of faintly blue human corpses, hanging upside down from meat hooks. I jumped back from the door as if stung.

"Scut!" My head was spinning.

"It's a tough world down here. Cannibalism is accepted. It's big business. Forget it—nothing we can do. Come on." She pulled me down the hall. But there was another door. I only got a quick glimpse of it—a file of chubby, naked young girls, pale skin and mindless eyes, still alive, shuffling forward, escorted by a fat male butcher with a shockrod, guiding them to an unknown fate. Then Whit pulled me away.

"Let's see that manager," she said. "Keep cool."

We pushed open the door at the end of the hall. A rail-thin young man in a thick sweater was sitting behind a large desk in a cluttered office. The walls were decorated with colored posters of his products.

"We're the manager—Clinton Quair. Can we help it?"

"Thanks for seeing us," Whit cut in before I could respond. "Our name's Tani Weemas. We're new in town, and trying to locate a former employee of its firm—Kenkan Megwa. If it can…" but the mention of the name was enough. The manager's eyes had widened, and a sudden alarm was clearly evident. One hand crept towards the edge of the desk.

"Don't!" I warned him, jamming a hand into my jacket pocket. He froze, and carefully raised both hands, palms out. They were trembling.

"We don't want trouble," he said shakily. "We weren't here when it happened. We never contacted the police. We had nothing to do with it—nothing!" He was quite obviously terrified. I exchanged glances with Whit, and spoke.

"Tell us what you know," I said in a menacing tone.

"We only know what the survivors told us—only that! We're just a businessman—we were not involved!" He was sweating.

"Let's hear it," I demanded.

"He didn't work here long—less than a month. He wasn't a model employee, that's all I know! The police took his personnel records—we don't have anything left."

"Why wasn't he a model employee?" Whit asked.

"He shot the former manager in the head, and executed most of the day gang. Six of them. Then he let the stock loose. It took days to round them all up again—they were all over town."

"Where is Megwa now?" I asked.

"Ask the police! We don't know, we don't care. We have no problem with it, we have no complaints. We're just a businessman, providing a service in response to public demand."

"So…it's wanted for murder?"

"Not for murder! It's not illegal to kill non-government personnel, unless somebody files a complaint—and nobody filed in this case. No, he's wanted for thoughtcrime."

"Thoughtcrime? What did it do?"

"We don't know! We just heard it. Ask the police!"

I looked at Whit. She placed a five hundred-C credmark on the manager's desk. "Appreciate the information. We'll go now."

He was speechless with relief.

***

Outside in the icy rain, we paused on the sidewalk, weaving slightly in the heavy gravity as our aircar glided slowly toward us from out of the fog. We were both clasping oxy masks over our mouths.

"Kaga is going to catch hell for this," Whit muttered through her mask. "It was supposed to check with the police, and it said there was no record."

"Whit, it knew Dragon," I said. "Would he really have killed all those people?"

"Dragon was a soldier of the Legion. It was a believer. Believers are dangerous. Certainly it did it."

"How do you feel about him now?"

"Our feelings don't change!" Her eyes flashed.

The aircar drew up beside us and the doors snapped open. Nelson handed a plastic printout to Whit.

"From Kaga," he said. "It seems the police are looking for our target."

"Remind us to drop Kaga's salary!" Whit snapped. We struggled into the car and collapsed gratefully into the seats. The message was a wanted notice, with Beta Eight's hungry face burnt onto the image plate. Even in that muddy pix his dark eyes appeared to glow with a fanatic, unholy light. I leaned over Whit's shoulder to read the notice:

WANTED
By the United System Alliance for
THOUGHTCRIME against the people.

CR 20,000 REWARD for information leading to the detention or death of Kenkan Megwa, Outworlder, Permanent Resident Alien of Yida, last seen in Keltos City on 1447/03/42. WARNING: Subject is armed and should be considered extremely dangerous.

"Shot him in the head," I mused.

"He's an idealist," Whit explained.

"Funny they don't specify what he did to merit thoughtcrime status," I commented, reading through the physical description.

"The System never specifies," Whit answered. "It doesn't matter, anyway. Thoughtcrime status is considered a hunting license by the police. It's a shoot-on-sight order."

"Six…no, seven dead. And he freed the…what did the manager call them? Stock?"

"Futile, but admirable. Flesh stock is raised just to be slaughtered. There's no attempt at education. Most of them can't even speak. They're just like animals. Easily recaptured."

Our aircar lurched into an icy rain. This Beta Eight must be quite a guy, I decided. But the manager was right—Dragon was certainly not a model employee.

***

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.