March of the Legion (21 page)

"They're down."

"Let's do it." Dragon dropped the aircar down below tree-top level. Trees flashed past wreathed in mist, leaves and branches exploding against our metal skin. Reducing speed now, just a faint whistle, the occasional branch snapping off to splinters. Closer, closer, right up ahead now. I leaned out the window with the vac gun. Cold rain stung my face.

They appeared suddenly out of the mist, a mud-splattered aircar parked incongruously in a field of shattered branches, surrounded by tall grim trees. The engine compartment was open. The driver turned suddenly to face us, his face going pale. Biergart was frozen for an instant by his side, then lunged for the open aircar door. I fired at Biergart first to prevent him from getting inside the car. He bounced off the aircar, spraying water, and fell to the mud. Back to the driver—I fired just as he was raising his weapon in a perfect two-handed stance, both feet planted solidly. Vac bolts flashed against his chest, knocking him over backwards.

I was out and running even before Dragon slid alongside the other car. Mud splattering, cold rain and icy air, adrenalin pumping. Biergart was getting up, thrusting one arm into the aircar. I fired again and he twitched to the ground. The driver moved. I approached him warily, aiming right at his face. He sighed and collapsed again before I had to fire. Dragon was suddenly by my side, his vac gun out, as cool as ice. I was out of breath and gasping helplessly.

"Good. Check the aircar dash," he said, "just in case they signalled for help."

"Tenners."

###

"It could at least have covered its faces," Biergart said. "That's the least it could have done." His pale, quivering face was streaked with sweat. He knew, better than I did, that he was doomed. He was tied to a slave chair in a damp dark room lit by a single panel near the door. We were in the basement of our newly-rented villa in the clouds.

Dragon and I were about to start the questioning—the driver was secured in another room. It was cold. I knew it must have seemed a lot colder to Biergart.

"Look, fellows—we've been around a long time." Biergart's gaze was flicking around the room, avoiding our eyes. "We know the way the world works. It's got us—all right. It wants something, it's got it. Whatever it wants—it'll get no trouble from us. Just tell us what it wants, it's done. It's working for Ginsa, isn't it? What does it want? Just tell us!" The sweat dribbled off his nose and trickled down his neck.

I had one foot up on a chair. I just looked at him, silently. Dragon drew up another chair slowly, scraping the crude wooden legs noisily across the raw slab floor until the chair almost touched Biergart's knees. Then Dragon slowly settled into the seat, his gaze riveted on Biergart.

A hot knife suddenly appeared in Eight's hand. Eight hit the control and it flickered blue-hot, a glowing lance.

Biergart stared at it like a mouse before a snake. "There's no need for that, boys!" he finally squeaked, "No need at all! Please—put it away! We'll give it whatever it wants—we told it! What is it? Does Ginsa want us dead? It can't be that foolish—we'll pay it! We'll pay! There's no need for unpleasantness, boys—we can deal! We'll give it all we have, just don't kill us!"

Dragon reached slowly up with his free hand and his fingers closed over one of Biergart's ears like a vice. He pulled Biergart's trembling head toward him, and the ear turned a bright red. The hot knife came up glowing, the reflections shimmering off Biergart's sweaty face.

"Ear?" Dragon asked me. I nodded, without comment.

"Boys! Boys!" Biergart was frantic, his eyes popping almost out of his head, "It's not necessary! We'll cooperate! Why? Why? Why do it? Please! Whatever it wants! It's got it!"

I turned slowly to Dragon, and nodded slightly. He cut the hot knife. The blade faded in the dark, still white-hot. Eight maintained the death-grip on the man's ear. I turned back to Biergart. He was trembling. I did not like this, not at all, but we had a job to do and we had to start with Biergart.

"Why?" I spoke at last. "Why is because we wish to show you we are serious. Why is because we are pressed for time—we have no time for nonsense."

"Serious?" Biergart shot back. "Serious! Yes, serious, we know it's serious, boys; no need for ears to prove it. We accept it! It's serious! No need to show us! We have a wife and two children! We'll cooperate!"

I nodded to Dragon again. He released the ear, and Biergart jerked back in his chair with a shudder, covered with sweat. I did not think we would have any trouble with him.

"We wish to ask you something," I said quietly. I was using the Systie 'you', an impolite term which was reserved for inferiors or subordinates.

"Yes, yes—whatever it wants, just ask!" Biergart seemed very anxious to assist us.

"We want quick and accurate answers. Truthful answers."

"Of course! It's got it!"

"You were involved in an infolink venture not too long ago."

"The infolink?" His eyes flashed from me to Dragon and back again. "The infolink! Yes, so we were! We want to know about the infolink?"

"What happened?"

Biergart licked his lips. He was obviously puzzled. "We thought everyone knew what happened. It was a shame. The deal fell through at the last mark. But it wasn't our fault! It was the financing—the Northcom Consortium went bust. They were under investigation by the System, and the cash had to go elsewhere. They were to have financed the Eli Group. Eli asked us to come up with two million. Two million! Can it imagine it? An infolink, billions of credits at stake! And they're quibbling over a few million! So the whole deal falls in—we didn't have two million. We tried to raise it, but it didn't work. Can it imagine that? We tell it, Cits, this world is full of people of limited vision. Billions, we could have had. Billions! Is it with Eli? What does it want? We did our best! We didn't know Eli had a problem with us!"

"There was a contact from offworld—a Cit Ranwan Lima. It was your contact."

"Ranwan Lima…" Biergart hesitated, his eyes darting around the room again. Eight triggered the hot knife.

"It wasn't a question!" Biergart exclaimed quickly. "It was a statement! Ranwan! Yes, of course, we knew it! What does it want to know?"

The hot knife faded again, a dull white glow. Biergart was in agony, straining at his bonds, weaving slightly in the chair.

"Our employer," I said, "desires to locate Cit Ranwan Lima. Our employer is convinced that you know where it is. We hope for your sake this is so."

"Is that what it wants?" Biergart stopped struggling. His body went slack and he breathed out heavily. Something close to a smile flickered on his lips. "It's no problem, boys. Yes, we know where it is. Cit Ranwan Lima is in the tombs."

"The tombs? It's dead?"

Now he smiled—it was strange, that giddy smile on his sweat-streaked face. "No, no, not the tomb—the Tombs! It's what we call the federal prison here—Tombara Reformary. And, yes, as far as we know, it's alive."

"How did it get there?"

"We put it there, boys. Nothing personal in it, of course—just business. We even tried to get Ranwan to come through with the two million. Of course, it refused—that was not part of our agreement. We understood. But the collapse of the infolink deal did us in as well, financially. We were in up to our neck. And we knew the standing reward for turning in an infolink bandit. It was twenty thousand more than zero, which was what we had out of the deal at that point. And after all, it was an offworlder—no one cared about the deal once it fell through. Ranwan had no protectors here. It was the logical thing to do—the feds are always happy if they can nab an offworlder. They hate to deal with the locals—it brings on too many problems."

"So you turned it in."

"We did, boys. It got thought reform and probation."

"Probation! So it's free?"

"No, no—it's in the Tombs, as I said."

"Well, what about the probation?"

"That comes after the thought reform."

"How long does thought reform last?"

"Until the authorities believe it's ready for the probation."

"Well, how long is that—normally?"

"Normally…it's never."

"Never?"

"Nobody is ever released from the Tombs, boys. Nobody."

"What was the charge?"

"Violation of System and Federal regs on offworld data transmission. It's a serious matter—it'll never see the light of day again, that's certain."

"The System, you say. The Feds."

"That's right."

"Would the governor have been brought into it?"

"It'd certainly have been informed of the arrest."

"Who runs the prison?"

"The Director of Reform—Japrad Marsh."

"Does it take money?"

"We all take money, boys."

"Does it, specifically, take money?"

"It's rotten to the core."

"Could someone be bought out of prison?"

"It's an intriguing concept. We don't think it's ever been tried. People with money usually don't go to jail in the first place. Normally, we just split up whatever little is left when the Feds grab someone. Does it owe a favor to this Ranwan Lima person?"

"Not exactly. Our employer wishes to speak with it—that's all."

"Its employer is going to a great deal of trouble."

"Tell us—your prison system. Does it use genetic ID to classify the inmates?"

"Genetic ID? Not on the run-of-the-mill inmate. That's expensive. Our prison system is very basic—the records are all manual. We know the feds can do it, but it's not routine."

"Would it be done for an infolink violation?"

"We don't know, boys. Probably not—unless there was some other reason, unless it was suspected of serious interstellar crimes, maybe. We'd help it if we could, boys, but we really don't know the answer to that one."

I glanced over to Dragon. "Outside," I said. He nodded.

"Take five, Biergart. We'll be back."

"Anything else it wants, just ask. Anything, boys! It's got it."

###

The view from the patio was magnificent. We looked out over a great, green wilderness. Misty grey clouds sliced through forested hills—the sky was grey and a wet, cool breeze washed gently over us.

"It's a shame about the Originals," Priestess said. "Did you read the history of Katag? They were a wonderful people, living in perfect balance with the forces of nature. Then the Outworlders came. Now the Originals are all drug addicts—and criminals. A dying race. It's a shame." We were leaning against the stone wall that ran the length of the patio.

"It's the System," Dragon said, "that does it. They encourage crime to ensure the population is at each other's throats. That way, nobody thinks."

"How's the driver?" I asked Priestess.

"He's secured," she responded. "What did you find out?"

We told her. Then we discussed it, standing in the teeth of a rising breeze under that cool grey sky. It looked like it might rain. The air was too thin, I decided—not enough oxygen.

"So they may not have done the genetic ID."

"Or they may have—we don't know."

"It's possible the governor doesn't know who he has."

"It's also possible he does."

"Maybe he doesn't care—money can buy forgiveness."

"Maybe. Maybe not."

"So we go to the prison."

"March right in!"

"All or nothing!"

"Money talks!"

"He might be just waiting for us."

"If we offer enough, the word might never get back to him."

"It's natural for the lowest-ranking person who has the power to release her to take the money and do it."

"Auto-payment to be made upon the successful arrival of all four of us through Customs at any Systie world."

"It's the usual arrangement, according to Tara."

The wind was rising—it was getting cold. "All right, we do it," I said.

"We've got to do Biergart and his driver first," Dragon said.

"I've been thinking about that," I said.

"There's nothing to think about," Dragon countered.

"There's no need to kill them," I said. Dragon looked out at the view, silent.

"We've got that displacement monitor," I insisted, "and we've got contac. We can leave the two of them together in the basement. If they shift position too much, it goes off. We explain it to them—they won't move!"

Dragon said nothing. Neither did Priestess.

"It'll work!" I said. "There's no need to kill them. He's just a nobody—he's scared stiff. He won't give us any trouble."

"He'll turn us in first chance he gets," Dragon said.

"He won't get a chance! He'll be secure in the basement, staring at the displacement monitor."

"It won't work, Thinker," Dragon said flatly. "We don't know if we're under surveillance or not. They could be all over this place the moment we leave. We can't leave them here."

I was starting to sweat, even in that chill breeze. "Look, he's just a sub. He's not important. He's got a family. And the driver is just a spectator. It's not his fault he works for Biergart. We can't just murder them!"

Nobody said anything. It started to rain—a fine mist.

"You want me to do it?" Dragon asked.

"Priestess, what do you think?" I asked. She was my last hope. Surely Priestess would not countenance the cold, brutal murder of two innocents.

Priestess turned her perfect face to mine. It was devoid of emotion. "Our first duty is to our mission, and to ourselves. Your proposal would put us all at risk. You're a soldier of the Legion, Thinker. And it's your op. We'll do as you say. I know you'll do your duty." And she turned away, facing the rain.

I could hardly believe it.

###

"Our wallet, boys. It's on the table." Biergart was sweating again. He knew something was up. Dragon and I paused before him. We had earlier dumped his effects on the table, but had not even looked at the wallet.

"We don't want your wallet," I said.

"Just open it, will it?" He was very subdued.

I flipped it open. There was a holo of his family—Biergart, plump and content; a chubby, smiling wife with reddish hair. Two impish children, bright eyes and ruddy gold hair. I closed it quickly.