The Last Legion: Book One of the Last Legion Series (3 page)

The speaker interrupted Garvin, and said, “Stand by for jump,” and moments later the slight nausea, disorientation came, and they were in stardrive. They waited to see what would happen next, but, characteristic of space travel, nothing did.

“Let’s go see what there’s to see,” Garvin said, unstrapping.

“I thought we’d be in zero gravity,” Njangu complained.

“Be grateful we’re not,” Garvin said. “Lots of people’s stomachs would be real unhappy, and I don’t get my thrills swabbing up puke in midair.”

“Oh yeh?” Njangu said. “You been out before?” The phrase, heard on holos, rang tastily on his tongue.

Garvin smiled, shrugged, and led the way out of the compartment.

There wasn’t much to see. More crew bays, deserted assembly areas, long corridors looking like the one they’d just left. There weren’t any viewports, even on the outer decks, and neither Njangu nor Garvin could figure out how to operate the occasional screen they came upon.

Njangu stopped atone compartment hatch labeled
LIBRARY.

“Let’s go educate ourselves, like that goon told us we were supposed to do.”

Low tables lined the walls, with screens and keypads at regular intervals. Njangu sat behind one, touched a key. The screen lit:

ENTER REQUEST

“What?”

“Try, uh, destination,” Jaansma suggested.

Yoshitaro touched keys.

THAT IS NOT A PERMITTED REQUEST. TRY AGAIN.

“What about where we’ve been? Do what Scarface suggested and see what the holos say about riots.”

“ ’Kay.”

A line scrolled across the screen:
BASHEES NG, SERMON CON-FED PUNDITS.

“Huh?”

Another line:
BOSHAM RADS
4
STUN;
then a third:
LOK BLOOIES TURN WUNKIES BAK
, 32
BAGGED
, 170
INJ
.

“I’m getting the feeling I don’t speak Confederation,” Njangu said.

“Guess the journohs have their own shorthand, maybe?”

A rather voluptuous young woman smiled out. She wore nothing at all. Another line scrolled:
PROKKY SEZ WORRY NU, SPORTY ALWAYS
.

“Well good for ol’ Prokky,” Garvin said. “I’d sure sporty with her.”

“Wonder if we’ll find something like her where we’re going,” Yoshitaro said.

“If we do, she’ll be officers only,” Garvin said. “The hell with it. Let’s get eddicated later.”

A crewman hurrying past spotted them.

“You two.”

They stopped.

“What’re you doing outside your compartment?”

“Nobody said we couldn’t,” Jaansma said.

“Nobody said you could, either,” the sailor snapped. “And I just happen to need two servers in the mess hall. Let’s go.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and went back down the corridor, obviously expecting them to follow. Njangu and Garvin glanced at each other, then obeyed.

“What is this?” Jaansma said. “Everything not ordered is forbidden?”

“I think we’re starting to understand things,” Njangu said wryly.

• • •

On the third ship-day, they were ordered to pack their civilian clothes and issued gray tunics and pants, and soft-soled boots that strapped at the ankles. There were no patches, no insignia, not even name tags.

“We look like damned prisoners,” Garvin said.

“No we don’t,” Njangu disagreed. “Prisoners wear red.”

“Thank you for the educational information, sir.”

“Quite welcome.”

“By the way,” Garvin said carefully, “that outfit you were wearing?”

“Yeh?” Yoshitaro’s voice was flat.

“You, uh, don’t look like the sort who’d wear something like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“You look like you’d thread a little better style.”

“I would. I did. But I didn’t have any choice. Somebody bought my outfit before I shipped out,” Njangu said. His expression didn’t encourage Garvin to ask more.

• • •

The ship schedule was simple: Stand in line to eat, exercise, stand in line to eat again, eat, try to find somebody to talk to or game with, stand in line to eat, eat, sleep … and the days ground past.

Petr Kipchak had a bunk at the far end of the compartment, but he was uninterested in making friends. He was either in a rec area, working out on the weight machines for endless hours, or in his bunk, reading a disk, completely engrossed.

• • •

“Dunno if I agree with this monosexual ‘freshing,” Njangu muttered.

“Why not?”

“Liable to give some of us ideas.”

“Naah,” Garvin said. “They put something in the food to keep it from happening.”

“Hey,” Yoshitaro said. “You’re right. I haven’t had a hard since we’ve been shipboard!”

“See? Just listen to Uncle Garvin, and you’ll know everything in time.”

• • •

“Allah with a yo-yo,” the recruit named Maev gasped. “You won’t believe this.”

“What?” Garvin and Njangu rolled out of their bunks.

“C’mon. You’ve got to see it.” Maev beckoned them to the refresher, which was nearly full of men and women getting ready for the third-meal.

She pointed to one shower cubicle, large enough for a dozen people. But there was only one in it — Petr Kipchak, who appeared oblivious to their attention.

Garvin was about to ask what was so special, when he saw.

Kipchak was busily washing his genitalia with one of the stiff nylon brushes they used to scrub the shower walls and singing loudly off key.

“Good flippin’ gods!” Garvin blurted, and the three retreated as Kipchak raised his head.

“What the
hell
… th’ bastard’s mental!” Maev said.

Njangu was about to agree, then realized — as he’d ducked back around the corner, he’d seen something very much like a smile on the burly man’s face.
One way to have a little privacy
, he thought, and hid his amusement.

• • •

Garvin was awakened by a series of double-dings he’d learned told the time to the
Malvern
’s crew. It was deep in the ship’s sleep cycle, and there were snores, some light, some hearty, around the compartment.

It was dark except for the dull red ready lights on the bulkheads, and, at the end of the room, white light from the refresher.

He sleepily decided he was thirsty and padded into the refresher.

It was deserted but for four men, two women. One woman stood by the hatchway on lookout, the other five sat or squatted around two blankets spread on the plas-slotted deck. All were older recruits. One was Petr Kipchak.

There were money and cards on the blankets. Kipchak had only a few bills and some coins, while the dealer had a wad of currency from a dozen worlds.

The five eyed Garvin. But he showed no particular interest, and went to the urinal. His expression flickered suddenly as he watched the game out of the corner of his eye, then became calm, innocent once more.

He finished, drank water from a tap, walked back by the game. One man, the dealer, a heavyset, balding man, looked up.

“Go to bed, sonny. This is way over your head.”

“Children’s money’s not good, huh?” Garvin asked.

The dealer started to snap, then smiled, a rather nasty smirk. He evaluated Jaansma, absently twisting a large silver ring on his left hand back and forth. Finally, he said, “You wanna get burned, it’s your business. I got no objections. Anybody else?”

Kipchak seemed about to say something, then shook his head. The others shrugged or nodded as well.

“Table stakes, so you best be ready for some hard ridin', troop, and no sinvelin’ when we wipe you out,” the dealer said. “Go get your stash.”

Garvin went to his bunk, spun the combination wheels on his small carryall, took out a pair of socks. Inside was a thick roll of bills. He dressed hurriedly, making sure his boots were carefully strapped.

Njangu’s eyes were open. “What’s going on?”

“There’s a game back in the refresher. Thought I’d get in it.”

“Didn’t think you were a gambler.”

“I’m not.” Jaansma hesitated. “And neither is the guy with the cards. He’s a mechanic.”

Njangu sat up. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

“Make me some money.”

“Be careful.”

“I’m always …” Jaansma broke off, thought a minute. “You want in on the action?”

“I don’t play cards.”

“You don’t have to. Look, I just got an idea that’ll make for a lot of fun for everybody.”

Garvin spoke in low, quick tones. Njangu frowned, then started grinning.

“One question,” he said. “Why’re we doing this? It could mean trouble.”

“Didn’t you just answer your own question?”

“Maybe I did,” Yoshitaro said. “Sure. We can do it like that.”

Jaansma peeled some bills from the roll.

“Here. Give me, oh, fifteen minutes.”

• • •

Garvin curled the five cards in his hand, examined them. Not good, not bad. This was the fourth hand he’d played. He’d dropped out of two, bet on one and lost.

“Ten credits to play,” the woman said, and tossed a bill into the center of the blanket.

Garvin tossed two coins on top of the ante, and other notes followed. Three players, including Kipchak, stayed in.

“Go ahead, kid,” the dealer said. “You’re off.”

“I take one,” Jaansma said, discarding and taking a single card from the five-card widow, and the dealer replaced it from the deck in his hand.

“No help,” he sighed, and tossed his hand into the discards.

Betting went around twice, and Kipchak took the small pot.

The dealer was shuffling when Yoshitaro slipped in. “Hey, Kipchak,” Njangu said. “I’ve got the money I owe you. Found a dice game yesterday.”

Petr blinked, looked hard at Njangu, was about to say something. Yoshitaro moved his head slightly up, down.

“Oh. Yeah. Hold my place.” Kipchak got up.

“I got it in my bag,” Njangu said, and the two went out.

Another hand was dealt, and the dealer won.

Petr and Njangu came back in. Kipchak’s face was dark, stormy, then calmed. He sat down, and Njangu leaned against a bulkhead, not far from the lookout, someone who couldn’t sleep and was boredly kibitzing.

The game went on for another hour. Garvin noted that one man licked his lips when he was bluffing, the woman pulled absently at a lock of her hair when she had a strong hand, other traits. But mostly he watched the dealer. The luck went back and forth, but the credits slowly and steadily flowed toward the heavy man with the ring.

Finally Garvin stretched his legs, and happened to tap Petr with his toe.

“ ‘Scuse me,” he said. Kipchak didn’t answer.

“Wisht we had some quill,” a man grumbled. “Losin’ like I’m doin’ is easier if you’re not too sober.”

The dealer swept up the cards, shuffled them hastily.

“Mind if I cut?” Jaansma said.

“No,” the dealer said shortly. “You’re right.” He set the deck down on the blanket.

“Deep and weep, thin and win,” somebody intoned.

Garvin picked up the deck in one hand, cut it smoothly. The dealer looked at him carefully, took the deck, and cards flicked out.

It was quiet in the refresher except for the soft whine of the conditioner fans, and the snap of the cards being dealt, the sound a bit louder than it might’ve been.

The dealer’s lips quirked when he picked up his hand. “This one’s got to be expensive,” he announced. He picked up bills. “One hundred even to see if I’m braggin'.”

“I’ll play,” Kipchak said, and put most of his small reserve in the pot.

“Me too,” Garvin agreed.

Two others stayed, two tossed in their hands.

“I’m taking two cards,” Jaansma said, and his hand passed over the widow as he discarded. His expression didn’t change when he picked up the new cards.

“Dealer takes one.”

“I’ll fly these,” Kipchak said, and stood pat.

The woman took two, the remaining man three.

“Another hundred,” the dealer said.

The woman dropped out, the remaining man increased the bet.

“I think I’m lucky,” Jaansma said. “Up two hundred.”

“And a hundred back at you,” Petr said.

“Like I said, expensive,” the dealer said. “ ‘Sides, it’s getting late. Don’t want to spoil my complexion with late hours.” He counted. “Up five … six hundred.”

“The kid’s going to be foolish,” Garvin said, and peeled bills into the stack. “And up two hundred on you.”

“I’m short,” Petr said.

“No problem,” Njangu said, coming away from the bulkhead and taking notes from his pocket. “Your credit’s good.”

“Thanks.”

The dealer laughed unpleasantly. “I think I’m gonna sleep real, real good.” He flipped his hand onto the table. All five were of a single color.

“Guess that does it,” and he reached for the money. “High to the Protector.”

“Not quite.” And Petr slowly tossed cards faceup on the blanket. “Ruler … Ruler … Ruler … Ruler … and the Alien for a fifth.”

The dealer’s eyes went wide. “You weren’t — ” and his hand went for his back pocket.

“Rube!” Garvin snapped, coming to his feet.

Light glinted as a tiny steel dart flickered across the blanket, buried itself in the dealer’s forearm. He yelped, and blood spurted.

The lookout came forward, a short length of pipe appearing in her hand. Njangu sidestepped into her, and snapped a backhand strike into her temple. She tumbled across a player, lay still.

Another man was getting up, and Garvin drove a punch into his solar plexus, then smashed the back of his hand into the man’s skull, and he went down.

The dealer stared at his blood-runneling arm, the knife still buried near his elbow. Petr pulled the dart free, and again the man screeched.

The other players were motionless, arms raised to their shoulders, fingers splayed.

Yoshitaro glanced into the troop bay. “Nobody heard anything,” he reported.

Peter wiped the tiny knife clean, made it vanish. “Don’t like cheaters,” he said. “Maybe I oughta slice your tendons for you. Play hell with your card game.”

The dealer moaned, shook his head pleadingly.

“You people see anything tonight, or did you go to bed early?” Kipchak asked.