Legion Lost (5 page)

“We’ll
drop you off at Medical,” the first soldier explains loudly. “You have to be
decontaminated before you enter the Bastion.”

“What’s
the Bastion?” I ask, shouting to be heard over the hum of the hovercraft.

“It’s
kind of like a lecture hall,” the female soldier offers. “You’ll get to hear
Governor Prudell make the Speech of Legion. It’s quite something.”

Prudell.
The name sparks another painful memory from home. Prudell is a word spoken
mostly in whispers in the Underground, but I can remember my father’s bold
declarations, one night long ago in the Atrium.
Death to Prudell.
His
raging, booze-soaked slur echoes in my head, fresh as the day when his clenched
fist punched the air and chanted those words over and over again.
Death to Prudell.
Death to Prudell.
Now, I am among soldiers who revere that evil name. I’m
not sure that I will find the Governor’s speech all that inspiring, but I’m
eager to see the figure who has ignited so much hatred among my people for so
long.

The
soldiers point out the medical building as it comes into view: a small, white
box with metal siding and no windows. It sits like an entrance porch, directly
in the way of the Legion’s massive central tower. Bouncing along in the
hovercraft, those concrete towers are even more awesome a sight, now that I’m
close enough to take in their proper height. As deep as the Atrium sinks into
the Underground, the Legion’s towers jut high into the cloudy sky. It is a
community, isolated and contained like my own, and now only the decontamination
process stands in the way of me entering its compound.

The
white paint is peeling from the corrugated building as I lean on its hot iron
wall, steadying myself after the vibrations of the journey. Three doorways are
spaced evenly into the building’s front wall, with black labels painted over
the arch of each one. From left to right, they read: VISITOR, RESIDENT, and RECRUIT.
The soldier who offered us a ride points us to the far right door, then he and
his small squadron march in through the central arch. I look to my fellow
recruit for guidance, watching as his dark eyes absorb the massive construction
before us.

“This
is it,” he breathes. “Our new home.”

His
words stick like a stray grain of rice in my throat, but I follow him through
the doorway marked RECRUIT all the same. Not far into the corridor, standing
under a flickering light strip, a tall, broad woman in a white coat is
conversing with a man in dark fatigues. As my friend and I step cautiously toward
them, I take in the man’s grizzled, black jaw and his cold eyes, the colour of
steel. It has been a long time since I’ve seen anyone with skin darker than
mine. The army man’s coal-black hand reaches up to scratch the nape of his neck
as he lets out a long sigh.

“Four
hundred and thirty-one captured, eight dead, and one damned escapee,” he
grouses. “There goes my perfect record.”

The
woman in the white coat has bright red hair pulled back into a high ponytail.
Its length and shine make me want to touch my own locks, until I remember that they’re
no longer there. The woman puts a wide, pale hand on the man’s shoulder.

“It
had to go sometime, Gus,” she soothes. “Are you still looking for the runaway?”

“Mmm-hmm,”
the man replies with a nod. “Dark skinned girl, long dark hair. That’s all I’ve
got to go on. My men only saw the back of her. Must be a damn fast kid. Let me
know if you hear anything, Sheila.”

It’s
now that the one called Sheila notices our arrival. My stomach writhes as the
man’s grey eyes flicker over us, and I’m trying to hide my reaction to all that
he’s just said. I know by the numbers that he’s got to be talking about the
Underground raid, and he said that eight people are dead. Eight people I know
have died, and I’m the only one left who isn’t a prisoner. When the dark
soldier smiles at me, his look is far from kind, but neither is it vicious. He
folds his massive arms at the two of us expectantly.

“Well
now, what are skinny boys like this doing looking to join
my
Legion?” He
steps closer to us, his grin widening to bear his teeth and gums like an
animal. “You hoping to be real men by the end of it?”

My
small friend seems all the smaller as he gives a submissive little nod. I keep
my head level, staring up at the army man as hatred builds in my chest.

“Sir,
yes sir,” I reply.

He
smirks at me, then turns on his heel and sets off down the corridor. As I watch
him leave, I can make out the dark, grey opening ahead that must lead into the
Legion. A hand on my shoulder makes me jump, and I quickly turn my gaze back to
Sheila. She retracts her hand swiftly, as if she’s afraid that I might lash out
at her, but her smile stays fixed in place.

“Senior
Commander Augustus Briggs,” she explains, nodding in the direction of the
fading figure. “Don’t get on his bad side, fellas.”

Sheila
takes a plastic fob from a lanyard around her neck and swipes it against two
doors ahead of us, one on either side of the corridor. Though the outside of
the medical building is flanked with tired-looking iron, the interior boasts
doors that slide away on automation. A green light glimmers beside each one.
Sheila uses one wide hand to motion us forward, guiding my small friend to the
door on our left.

“This
is a private decontamination pod,” she says. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave
your old clothes and belongings in here. The Legion provides all recruits with
regulation possessions.”

My
friend glances back at me with a nervous look, but Sheila’s guiding hand makes
him face forward again.

“Don’t
worry,” she continues. “The computer will tell you exactly what to do. When
you’ve finished, a door will open on the other side and Dr Bartlett will be
waiting to interview you.”

“Thanks,”
the dark-haired boy replies shakily.

He
chances one more look at me before he enters the room. I mouth “good luck”
before he vanishes, the door sliding shut behind him.

“You
can take this pod here,” Sheila says with a wave of her hand. “It leads through
to my office for an interview when you’re done.”

She
doesn’t try to touch me again. The white-coated woman simply waits with pale,
patient eyes. I step up to the door on the right, peering inside to find a
small, black screen embedded into the wall. Beneath it there is some sort of
hatch, and a small metal stool with a plastic-wrapped parcel of clothes on top
of it. They are black fatigues, just like the ones worn by the invaders who
destroyed my home. And left eight people dead. The thought haunts me again as I
stare at the uniform they want me to wear. Please don’t let Bhadrak be one of
those eight.

“Well?”
Sheila asks. “This is what you want, isn’t it? The Legion doesn’t force any
young person to join, but once you’re in, you’re in.”

I
turn to meet Sheila’s eyes, hoping the fear and anger inside me isn’t showing
too much on the surface.

“I
don’t have anywhere else to go,” I tell her.

She
just smiles knowingly. “If I had a credit for every time I’ve heard that, I’d
be living in the System by now.”

I
step into the pod, and the door slides shut behind me with a faint beep. No
sooner than I have placed myself in the centre of the room, the black screen on
the wall illuminates, the emblem of a fortified castle greeting me with the
word
welcome
written beneath it. I have heard a lot about computers, but
the few pieces of technology that we had in the Underground were reserved for
skilled hands only. I watch in fascination as the pictures and words change,
forming two buttons that are labelled as stage one of the process.

MALE.
FEMALE.

I
glance around, looking for any indication of a spyhole or a camera that could
be observing. All I find are what look like tiny air holes in the ceiling and
sides of the pod. I am totally free to press whatever I choose and have no one
be the wiser. In his offhanded conversation, the army man Briggs had let slip
that the soldiers were definitely hunting an Underground girl. If I hit the MALE
button now, I can vanish into the Legion for good. My finger hovers over the
button, almost touching the large
M
on the screen, and then the screen
flashes and thanks me for my input. I suppose the screen is more sensitive to
touch than I’d expected.

With
the decision made for me, I follow the computer’s various instructions to
complete the decontamination process. I have to surrender my wire cutters and
my brothers’ hand-me-down clothes, putting them into the hatch beneath the screen,
where they will apparently be disposed of. I find a vest and some clean new briefs
in the plastic uniform package, putting them on before readdressing the screen.
The computer asks me if I’m ready for decontamination. I press the YES button
and wait.

The
air holes in the ceiling are not air holes. A freezing cold shower of something
foul-smelling pours down on me from the tiny openings. Before I can even shield
myself from the onslaught, another liquid sprays out from the side walls,
counteracting the stench of the first jet. The whirring of fans makes me jump
as frozen air permeates the sides of the pod, drying me off as quickly as I’ve
been soaked. Less than a minute has passed, but now I stand shaking, frozen,
and reeking of antiseptic.

I’m
grateful when the computer tells me that I can put on my fatigues, and even
more relieved when the door to my right slides open. Sheila stands behind a
shiny metal desk, holding a slim, black instrument in her hand that I instantly
don’t like the look of. She indicates a stool where I am to sit, then moves her
thumb across her handheld device. It begins to vibrate, emitting a metallic-sounding
noise.

“Do
you mind if I even your hair out?” she asks. “It’s a terribly bad cut at the
back, and Commander Briggs likes everyone to look neat and tidy.”

The
buzzing device is a razor. Sheila stands behind me and I feel the rotating
blades tickle up the back of my head. Dark black hair falls in tufts at my
shoulders as the white-coated woman gently circles me to complete each section.

“Have
you thought of a name for yourself?” she says. “It’s Legion policy that your
old identity stays outside our walls.”

I
can’t give her my real name. No one outside the Underground has ever known it,
and I rather like the idea that it’s my little secret to keep. I don’t want to
give her the name of anyone else I know either, so when a word from one of my
mother’s old stories enters my head, I stick with it.

“Raja,”
I say.

“Lovely,”
Sheila replies. “We haven’t had a Raja before.”

Setting
down the razor, Sheila returns to her desk and gives me an appraising look. She
turns to a small lens beside her computer, pointing it at me and adjusting its
position.

“A
little photo for the records,” she explains. “Whatever you do, don’t smile.”

There’s
very little danger of that, now that I’m trapped in a place like this.

The
lecture hall known as the Bastion is inside the tallest, front-most tower of
the Legion. There are only a handful of recruits present when I take a seat in
the curved front row, and they are all gazing up at a wide screen which bears
the System’s angular logo—a spark of blue lightning split in two by the
downward swing of a bronze arrow. The symbol rotates at the top left corner of
the screen as images and maps flash by from all over the nation. Scrolling
headlines catch my eye, full of statements that boast of the System’s various
successes.

The
advent of technology on the surface is incredible, like the sleek, supersonic
monorails that travel high above the land, connecting the System’s five major
zones, which are spread throughout the south and west of our nation. I know
that we must be on the northernmost border, above the great System city of
Mancunia, but we are also situated below the place where the map turns dark.
The shaded area of the map is marked by the word
Highlands
, and I
presume it’s a place that System-dwellers would rarely visit. All that darkness
seems so near to the Legion on the national map, and it makes me wonder why the
System has decided not to expand itself farther north.

The
screen shifts into a scene of a rolling crowd, a mass of people who are walking
in unison through a valley of steel gates and iron fences. The exodus is shot
from overhead by a craning camera, which suddenly swings upwards to settle on a
balcony-like structure above the people. Here, a bright-eyed reporter with
deeply tanned skin indicates the crowd in the way that a chef might sweep their
hands proudly over a feast. The scrolling headline changes below the picture,
and my heart leaps into my throat when I see the tagline of the story:

FOURTH
UNDERGROUND CLEAR-OUT IN TWO MONTHS. GOV. PRUDELL QUOTED: “AND SO THE RATS ARE
DRIVEN FROM THE SEWERS OF OUR PRECIOUS NATION.”

The
reporter speaks of the Underground raid as though it was a roaring success, but
all I can do is suck back the venom at seeing my people being herded like
cattle. I want the reporter to say where the prisoners are being taken to, but
all she delivers is a summary of other recent raids, giving high praise to the
System’s military corps. It interests me that there is no mention at all of the
eight fatalities, or of my escape. Briggs seems keen to have me caught, but on
a national level, the Underground runaway is a totally secret subject.