Cross of the Legion (29 page)

"323/10/29, CGS. The Government of the United System Alliance not having responded truthfully to our demarche of 323/10/22, the people and Government of the Confederation of Free Worlds, through their Executive Council meeting on 323/10/29, now publicly accuse the Government of the United System Alliance, and all its allied and associate states, of unprovoked genocide against the peoples of the Confederation of Free Worlds. Accordingly, in order to safeguard its rights and interests, the Confederation of Free Worlds henceforth considers itself in a state of war with the United System Alliance, and all its allied and associate states. Resolved, by the people of the Confederation of Free Worlds, that this state of war is hereby formally declared, that the President of the Executive Council is authorized and directed to employ the entire armed forces of the Confederation of Free Worlds to carry on war against the United System Alliance and all its allies, and, to bring the conflict to a victorious termination, all of the resources of the Confederation of Free Worlds are pledged to this end. May God have mercy on our souls, and may He protect our brave soldiers."

What have I done, I thought, in shock. Deadman, what have I done?

Chapter 19
Pherdos

"Skystar's set." My voice was a hoarse whisper as I snaked wearily through a field of oily mud under a dark sky. There were at least twenty different ways to die in the next few marks, but I was too damned tired to worry about it. Evening on Pherdos—what a nightmare. This had been a city once. Now it was just glowing rubble. The sky was flickering, too—deceptors and antimats. The tacmap on my faceplate was all scrambled, but that was good. It meant the Systies couldn't see me.

"Tenners. Are you clear?" Priestess, breathing right in my ears. She always gave me a shot in the heart—knowing she was there. It made it all the more crazy. A few lasers cracked overhead. A tacstar erupted on the horizon, electric blue, suddenly illuminating a corpse lying right in my path. A woman, swollen and putrid, blue skin falling off one petrified arm, crawling with maggots, awful fingers still scratching at the sky.

"Clear." I squirmed around the corpse. The warning lights in my helmet were all a soothing green. Where was the bastard? It was an evil sky, covered with smoky clouds. We hadn't seen the sun in weeks. The horizon was aflame, the ruins were burning. I had no idea how I was going to find Priestess again without the tacmap—but I knew I would. She was all I had, at that point.

Tacstars floated lazily overhead, leaving eerie phospho wakes against the dark. The airtank popped back on the tacmap, barely visible in a field of static.

"All right, there he is," Priestess whispered. "See him?"

"Ten." I could see it visually. The airtank floated in a hazy cloud of debris, moving in and out of shattered buildings, shooting up everything around it—lasers, auto x, tacstars. Drifting, casually reaching out and touching whatever it liked. A building came tumbling down around it in a cloud of glowing smoke. It was a DefCorps heavy A-tank—a formidable beast.

"Damn. There are people there," Priestess said. I could hear the x-max. "Civilians. He's strafing them. Just gunning them down."

"Which way is he going?"

"Drifting your way. Are you sure you're clear?"

"Clear." The civilians would be Outworlders. I vowed again to never stop killing Systies, as long as there was breath left in my body.

We watched as the airtank floated under that hellish sky, methodically blasting everything around it. There was nothing else we could do. Airtanks were tough. We were both too tired to comment further. We just watched, as the A-tank slowly drifted into the defensive perimeter of the Skystar I had just set. I reflected briefly on the futility of trying to avoid your fate. It didn't even matter if you were hiding inside an A-tank. When your time came, you were gone.

The Skystar missile burst out of the rubble, leaped up to the airtank in a blue flash, and a blinding nuclear airburst filled the sky with glowing tracers. The burning remnants of the airtank came showering down all around me, whistling and screeching, the impacts shaking the earth.

"Good," Priestess said. "Now let's take that objective."

"Watch yourself," I replied. "Slowly! There's plenty of bad guys still out there." I began crawling towards the target.

***

"Systie-free," Priestess declared, kicking the exterior door closed viciously from inside. Her camfaxed A-suit was splattered with mud and she was festooned with ampaks and armament. Her E glowed on live and her ruby red faceplate was like a mask of blood. We had gained our objective, the interior of the prison. The place was built like a fortress and had survived the seesaw fighting that raged in the area the last few weeks.

"I'll place a sentrycam here," I said, banging one into the wall and pointing it at the door. "You want to tell Dragon?"

"No—let's scope the sit first." The place looked like an office mod. The cells would be downstairs. Take the prison, Dragon had said. Just the two of us, Priestess and me. The order had not even fazed us. Everyone was busy. There were plenty of targets. Take the prison. Fine. We could do that.

We reconned the stairway that led downstairs, dropping a few deceptors down for luck, covering each other, kicking in doors, twitching, E's at our shoulders, ready to fire. We found two levels of locked cells full of prisoners. No Systies. There was a guard post with table and chairs. We crashed down around a table, tore off our helmets and ripped open our ratpaks. My hands trembled. The place was filthy but it looked good to us after all the crap we had been crawling through outside.

"When's the last time we ate?" Priestess asked, wolfing down a choco.

"Days. Who cares?" I was devouring a hotpak of field protein. I thought eating was a waste of time, but our bodies were insistent.

"Still love me?" Priestess laughed, blinking dark eyes, choco smeared all over her face, licking the remnants of the pak from her armored fingers. There was nothing she could do to make herself more lovely.

"Take off your armor and I'll show you."

"Water." It was a croak, from the cellblock. I gazed over there indifferently, tearing open another foodpak. The rations were terrific. Priestess wandered over to the nearest cell door and looked in. It was a cenite door with a narrow, barred window.

"Water. Please. We've had no water."

"Don't get too close, Priestess. They said these prisoners are dangerous."

"This one's a female."

"It doesn't matter. They're politicals—snakes! Be careful." I got up and approached the cell door. A skeletal female with a shaved head looked out at us. She was clad in a torn u-shirt and ragged undies. She looked like an Orman.

"We're all going to die of thirst," she croaked, "if it doesn't help. We've been locked in here without water for five days. The toilets are dry. Please!" A chorus of pleas from the other cells joined in.

"Look at this," I said, fingering the prisoner data sheet from a plate set into the cell door. "This one was a lawyer. A lawyer! Let her die! Treasonous bitch! Lawyers are worse than murderers! Dragon was right—they're dangerous!" The prison had been in use by the Legion to detain Systie criminals when the front had shifted, abruptly. The Legion had not had time to evac the prisoners, and apparently the System had not even visited the place.

"Water!" The cry came from an adjoining cell.

"Shut down!" I ordered. The occupant was a large man with a weary grey face and a bald dome. He looked rather well fed, for a prisoner. I read the data sheet. "A judge! This one was a judge! A Systie judge! How many murderers did he set free? How many innocents died because of him? Burn in Hell, Systie! You'll get no water from me." I stormed back to the table, enraged. Lawyers! Judges! These were the people who had built the system, who had made it a paradise for lawyers and criminals, and a Hell for law-abiding taxpayer-slaves. Well, hopefully they would all be executed. The Legion would see to that.

"I guess I can spare them a little water," Priestess said tiredly.

"Suit yourself. But don't get too close to them. Remember, they're all subversives—traitors to humanity. War criminals!"

***

"All secure." I was outside the prison with Dragon. The rest of the squad had arrived, the front had rolled on, and nobody was actively trying to kill us—for the time being. We paused in a vast smoking wilderness of rubble. It had once been a pleasant suburb but now only the squat, bombproof bulk of the prison survived. It was daytime but the sky was overcast and spitting a sullen drizzle. A choking mist drifted past. My tacmap showed nothing nasty in the vicinity.

"That's a twelve, sir. We're a recon unit, not executioners. The prisoners are here if you want 'em." Dragon was on the tacnet with someone. I couldn't hear the other half of the conversation. I opened my faceplate and breathed in the morning. Cold, wet—burning ash. The neighborhood looked like a giant garbage dump.

"Three, I've just received orders to execute the prisoners. It's this punk officer in Tacom. I told him to stick it and he doesn't much like it." Dragon did not sound particularly concerned. He had a healthy contempt for rear echelon weenies.

"I'll talk to him, Dragon. Sweety, put me through. Hello—who's this?"

"This is Officer Sabe One of Tacom. Are those prisoners dead yet? With whom am I speaking?"

"This is Captain Thinker of Starcom." I emphasized the 'Captain' part. "Recon squad Jox is under my command, and we're too busy to execute your prisoners. Also, we don't do that kind of work. If you want them dead, send your own men. Understand?"

A short silence.

"Understand?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. Starcom out."

"Starcom out," Dragon repeated. "That's a nice touch."

"I knew that rank would come in handy some time. How are the prisoners doing?"

"All right. We're making the DefCorps guys comfortable".

"Good." Twelve of the prisoners were Systie soldiers. They'd get honorable treatment and PW status. But the bureaucrats—the lawyers, the officials—they'd get a merciful death, and it was better than they deserved.

"That aircar's on the way?" I asked Dragon.

"Yeah. Should be here soon."

"No word on what it's about?"

"Captain Thinker report to Opscom. That's it."

"Damn." Opscom was on
Atom
. It could be anything. I might not even come back. But there was nothing to be done. There was never anything to be done, when the Legion called, except to report back.

"I've called a squad inspection."

"What for?"

"So you can say goodbye."

"Oh, come on…"

"Squad inspection! Move it!" The squad appeared out of the mists, camfaxed ghosts in black armor, draped with armament and battle gear. They formed a ragged line before the prison, facing us.

"Attention! Visors open! Present arms!" Dragon barked the commands and the squad snapped to sloppily in a clash of armor. "All right, gang, Thinker is being recalled to Atom. Don't know what it's about, but we may not see him for awhile. That's all. Sir, the squad is ready for inspection."

I paused before Psycho. The little squirt smirked at me. His armor was splattered with mud and white with hits. His battered E dangled from a ratty sling. Ampaks and contac grenades hung from his shoulders. A bold red and white bulls-eye was lasered onto his chestplate and a skull and crossbones insignia decorated his helmet. His kills were carved into the stock of his E. There was not much stock left. All in all, he looked like a mad dog mercenary.

"Your boots are dirty, soldier," I said. He grinned back at me, revealing mossy teeth.

"When's the last time you brushed your teeth, soldier?"

"Last month, Thinker! I brush every month!" He looked hurt.

"When are you gonna pay me that hundred credits you owe me?"

"Soon's I kill some Systie with a hundred credits on him, Thinker!"

"Squad leader, this soldier is filthy. See that he takes a bath."

"Yes sir. You heard him, Psycho! Clean yourself up!"

"Does this mean I get leave?"

I moved on to the next squadie—Trigger, a tall, scary young trooper with a massive Manlink strapped around one shoulder. He was a walking arsenal, festooned with ampaks. Also filthy, in battered armor. Then the rest of them—Tourist, Sweats, Doctor Doom—a scurvy crew. Flash was no longer with us, and I tried not to think about that day. At the end of the line was my lovely Priestess, looking up at me with a dirty face and liquid brown eyes, and Beta Ten, Redhawk, our driver, smellier and hairier than ever, flashing a crazy grin. It was quite a squad. I'd miss them all.

"Has this squad ever passed inspection, squad leader?" I asked.

"No sir. Never. But it's passed combat—repeatedly."

"Good. Well, tell them they blew it again. But I'm proud of these guys. And I'll see you all again as soon as I can."

"Squad dismissed! Get out of my sight! You've disgraced us again! And say goodbye to Thinker. No kissyface now."

Priestess drifted over to me. "Any hints what it's about?" she asked. It was still wet and cold. I could see her breath in the air.

"Sorry—nothing at all."

"If you're dealing with rear echelon pukes, tell 'em what it's like out here."

"I'll do that."

"I'll miss you."

"Come here."

"Dragon said no kissyface." She looked down at the mud, just like a child, too shy to look at me. I couldn't live without her. And now they were tearing us apart—again.

"I'll come back," I said.

"You'd better. I'll be waiting."

"The war isn't going to last forever."

"Dreamer."

"Take care of yourself." Her armored fingers locked around mine. A Legion aircar approached us in a blizzard of debris.

"Good bye, Three. Good luck!"

Chapter 20
The Death of Tyrants

The aircar took me to a shuttle and the shuttle shot me up to a tacship and the tacship made a quick jump and delivered me into the hungry maw of our mothership,
Atom's Road
. Before I could even start to enjoy the icy conditioned air, I was hustled across the ship and into a cruiser, the
Doom Pussy
. The
Doom Pussy
promptly broke dock lock and leaped into stardrive. I learned they were planning several jumps, so I knew it was to be a long voyage.

I assaulted the galley and ate like a pig, horrifying the crew. I didn't mind. I figured I was eating for all of our squad. Then I staggered to my little cube and hit the showers and washed away the outer layer of accumulated dirt and grit, and washed my hair until it wasn't greasy any more. I dumped my camfax fatigues in the laundry and then I crashed in the bunk for a dreamless sleep. When I awoke my fatigues were back again, faded but clean. I slipped them on and tied my squad scarf around my neck. It was ratty and torn, but it was us. My only insignia was a combat cross and a Captain's pip—and that was all I needed.

At Pers, they told me I was headed for Z2. I accepted it with a dull resignation. Z2—great. That was Starcom's Battle Front for the war with the System. It was deep in the Gassies, but I didn't know if it was on a planet or a starship or maybe a combination. It was a secret. The Legion didn't want anyone to know where the command was. But no matter where it was, I knew who I'd find there, plotting my fate like a bloodless biogen. I hadn't heard from Tara in some time—but I knew it was her.

I ate alone in the mess. Nobody wanted to bother me. They knew Legion soldiers were crazy.

The war was not going well. Wars never go well. They taught us that in Basic. It didn't matter that the Systies were doomed. They didn't know it, and they weren't going to make it easy for us. And it didn't matter that no one believed in the System any more. They were cranking out millions of biogens—perfectly programmed, perfectly mindless. All they did was kill. We used Holo-X when we could, and that was fine—but there weren't enough units to go around, and only a small fraction of Legion units were Holo-X equipped. A lot of Legion immortals were still dying.

I thought about the war a lot, lying in my bunk, staring at the overhead. It seemed that it was never going to end. It had us by the throat—it had me by the throat. Would we fight forever? Was that to be our fate? Hadn't we been through enough already? Deadman—Priestess and I had seen it all, and it looked like we were going to see it through to the end—or until one of us was killed—or both. Was it my fault? Moontouch and Stormdawn still awaited me on Andrion 2. I would wake in the night crying for them, and they would just fade away. And Millie—she was waiting for me too, on Quaba 7. How many millions of soldiers had died in mindless wars, leaving their loved ones behind to mourn for them—until their own deaths? But we were immortal. Our survivors mourned forever. Who could ever be ready for that? I knew a Legion girl in Providence whose first lover had been killed on Uldo, with the Eighth Legion. She told me she had never taken another lover, in all those years. And she said she thought about him every single day.

It was insane. It was pointless. The System was disintegrating. They could barely hold onto the Inners. The Hyades Federation had broken away and there was big trouble in the Pleiades and in the Dark Cloud. Out in the Gassies, the Pherdan Federation was paying the price for aligning itself with the System. The Systies recognized the importance of keeping a strong presence in the Pherdan Federation, as it was right up against the Outmark Border, within easy striking distance of the Outvac. The System had intervened decisively with major Starfleet and DefCorps units—and that explained our presence on Pherdos. Meanwhile, in the Gulf, chaos ruled. I couldn't keep track of everything that was happening there, but it all spelled trouble for the Systies.

I was a fool, I decided. Fine, I was a fool. But I was here, in the war, and I'd just have to accept it. Maybe it was my fault, but I was going to make sure our enemies paid for it. It was their fault, too.

***

It turned out Z2 was on a planet. They wouldn't tell me the name. When the shuttle doors popped open downside, I was hustled into an aircar and driven to my appointment. It was the middle of the night and it was cold out there. The ground was covered with snow that glittered under an icy, starry sky. We passed over great forests, massive trees that had never been cut, a primeval wilderness—and then the car dipped down past the snowy branches and we were in a vast Legion hive, perfectly camfaxed, perfectly organized.

After the usual security nonsense in the aircar bunker, a young trooper accompanied me along an exterior walkway marked with faintly luminous footlights. It was icy cold but the air was still.

"The Director's here," my escort said, flashing me a smile over his shoulder. He was dressed in spotless blacks.

"The Director of what?"

"
The
Director—of ConFree," he whispered conspiratorially. "He spends a lot of time here—running the war."

I didn't reply. I guess I must have been insane by then. Everybody becomes crazy sooner or later in the Legion, and I was well on my way. We had been through a lot on Pherdos. We had seen a lot. I considered it due only to Dragon's tactical genius that only one of us had been killed. It was a long, grisly campaign, and we spent much of it behind Systie lines, surviving on what we could steal. We killed hundreds of the enemy. We were bathed in blood, but it wasn't red blood. Most of them were biogens. A lot of them were girls—incredibly beautiful, incredibly tough girls, whose only mission was the extermination of Legion soldiers. And the only way to stop them was to kill them. It did something to me, every time I killed a girl. To me, they weren't biogens. They were lovely little angels who should have been loved, and comforted, and cared for when they cried. But instead, I had to kill them.

"Starcom ops is in here," my escort said. We entered a formidable bunker past blast doors guarded by a single trooper in full armor, and down a gloomy interior corridor lined with armored doors. It appeared completely deserted. I imagined everyone was asleep at that hour. Our boots echoed harshly off metallic walls. A blast door hissed open almost soundlessly, revealing a vast room lit only by scores of flickering d-screens, twinkling holo starmaps and cold green stratmaps. We stepped in.

"Chief Starcom Ops is right over there," the trooper said, gesturing into the dark. "Report back when you need transport." And he turned and left, leaving me alone as my eyes adjusted to what appeared to be a deserted room. Finally I made out a figure sitting in the dark and I approached.

It was Tara, slumped in an airchair before a wall full of d-screens, sound asleep. There was nobody else in sight. Her face was grey, eyes closed, brow furrowed, breath shallow, fingers twitching faintly. Still beautiful, that wondrous beauty from another dimension. But very tired. A single silver star was set into one collar of her blacks. A general. They had made her a general. The Legion certainly recognized talent, and Tara had that. In addition, she was certifiably insane. That was another of the requirements.

"Tara," I said gently. "Wake up."

She snapped awake instantly, startled, looking around wildly, gaping at me, stunned. "Wester! Deadman—how long have I been out? Oh my God, it's 0420!"

"It's all right, Tara—nobody's attacking us."

She stood, wobbly, and shook her head, silky hair rushing over her shoulders. "I'm sorry, Wester—welcome to Z2! Sleep—it's like a disease. I wish we could do without it."

"Are you guarding the whole galaxy by yourself, Tara?"

"No—no. We're short-handed. You don't look so good, Wester. Don't you have a coldcoat? It's cold out there!"

"You don't look so good yourself, Tara. No—all I've got is my camfax. So here I am. I knew it was you. Please tell me what you want. I'd like to do whatever it is you want me to do, and then get back to my squad."

She looked at me sadly, and resumed her seat. "You'll get to see your squad, Wester, but you may not like the circumstances. Pull up a chair. I want to show you a Systie propaganda flick." She reached out to her desk and a holovid snapped into vivid colors up on the wall. Golden letters in an alien alphabet marched across the foreground. Eerie martial music stirred my blood. A red sun arose from a sea of blood to illuminate a red-gold city. Thousands of people were marching together along wide avenues, under crimson banners, converging on a great stadium. We could see it all from the air. Phalanxes of lovely girls marched into the stadium in perfect order, singing heavenly songs. The camera rushed over their ranks—sparkling eyes, rosy cheeks, long clean hair, dazzling smiles, waving banners of red and gold.

An aircar approached out of the dawn, gleaming red in the sunrise. Its shadow passed over the marching hosts below. They looked up, pointing to the aircar.

The stadium was full. Hundreds of soldiers in gleaming golden A-suits lined the speakers' rostrum, SG's at their chests. Banners with arcane symbols rippled on the wind. The music built to a crescendo. Thousands of children in identical uniforms peered expectantly forward, hushed into silence.

He appeared behind an imposing lectern on the rostrum, a single man, master of all before him, clad in khaki. He raised a hand. The stadium erupted, a shattering roar that did not end. The camera rushed over the audience—enraptured, ecstatic, transfixed, adoring young faces, their eyes shining with love and faith.

He spoke. He gestured, he pointed, he appealed to the heavens. Who knows what he said? Who cared? They loved it. The applause washed over him like waves on a beach. His words hammered at them like stakes driven into their hearts. They listened, stunned, eager to understand, accepting it all without question, tears in their eyes, brimming with a fanatic, mindless faith.

When he finished, the audience erupted again. A delegation of little children burst forth from the crowd and performed a frantic, mindless dance to drums and brass, each child whirling a stick with a crimson banner around in circles, snapping it back and forth, up and down, all in time. And the faces of the children were gleaming with blind trust in their God, and in themselves. It was as if they were hypnotized. They knew, under His leadership, the Future was theirs.

When the holo faded darkness returned to the room. Tara sighed.

"Nice flick," I said. "Who's the gang leader?"

"The gang leader," Tara replied, "is Kenton Cotter-Arc. And your mission is to kill him. Come on. I want to introduce you to someone."

***

"Captain Thinker." The Director's icy blue eyes cut right into my soul. "Tara has briefed me on your background." I had seen him before only on the news. The last time he had been declaring war on the Systies. He looked younger in person and—harder.

"Sir!" I remained at attention. We were in a vast, darkened dome—the War Room, Tara had called it. Batteries of d-screens and tacmaps on low power were barely visible in the gloom, scattered around the room. The Director was all in black, with a single silver insignia visible—the Combat Cross. Tara had introduced me almost in a whisper. The War Room appeared empty except for the three of us. The Director was leaning over a stratmap when we entered. It was cold in the room, I realized—almost like outside.

"At ease, trooper. Tara, thank you. Give us a few moments."

"Yes sir." She faded into the dark, leaving me alone and paralyzed before the Director. My heart was pounding. The Director was a man of considerable mystery. He had appeared, almost as if from nowhere, right when the Legion needed him most, to step into the void left by Cotter-Arc's treacherous defection. His warname was Iceman. His background was typical Legion. Everyone he had known and loved had been annihilated by the Systies and the O's. And now, having nothing, he inherited the war. A man with no soul, a man with a dead heart, a man with no future, a man who did not sleep, who could feel no human emotion except the burning desire to avenge himself upon his enemies. I could see myself in his cold eyes. He was the perfect Legion immortal. Hardly human, incredibly brilliant, never tiring, driven to superhuman efforts—he was just what we needed. I didn't know how much of the story to believe, but he sure sounded like the answer to our fevered prayers.

"You did Mongera," he said. It sounded like an accusation. "You gave us the O. Then the Ship. Then the Star. And then the D-neg, and the time-drive. You thought it up, and you did it. And then you went and got us the Xeno-A, and stopped the plague." His eyes were glowing. It made me uneasy.

"No sir. Tara thought up the D-neg. And the mission to Plane Prime. I was just…"

"You rescued that squad on Mongera. Beta. You disobeyed a direct order, and you did that time jump, and you rescued that squad."

"Yes sir."

"My personal congratulations, Trooper. It's people like you who keep my faith alive!" He reached out and clasped my hand with both of his in a firm, cold grip. I was so startled I did not know what to say.

"You've come from Pherdos." He went back to his stratmap.

"Yes sir."

"Tell me about it." Pherdos came to life on the stratmap—the whole planet, glittering with Legion and DefCorps units, bases, ZA's, fronts, targets, campaigns, and the glowing ruins of former battlegrounds.

I told him. I told him everything—the easy victories, the horrific defeats, the slaughter of innocent civilians by the Systies, the annihilation of entire cities, the antimat sky, driving us to the edge of madness and beyond. The pointless attacks by biogen hordes, chopped to bits by our E's. The stupid valor, the stupid deaths, and the dying for the dead. Our closest comrades, shredded by the lasers. Flash, standing and advancing, when Psycho and Dragon were in peril. Walking right into the laser field, as I screamed frantically for him to come back. Come back, come back…he had advanced bravely to his death. And Psycho and Dragon had escaped. Vengeance, on our enemies. White blood, spurting. A Systie, caught and torn apart. Freezing nights, with murderous spheres and camfaxed snakes drifting through the dark, looking for the appropriate genetic material. Survival—twitching in the mud. Victory—and death.