The Last Legion: Book One of the Last Legion Series (34 page)

Kouro walked around the pile of melted plas in front of the police station. “No one saw them dump it off?”

“No one’s admitted to it yet,” Gothian said. “We’re still interrogating the night shift and the neighbors.”

“Why’d they do something absurd like this?”

Gothian started to snap something, stopped. No matter how thick, a publisher’s son was treated gently. “If none of the ’Raum have identity cards,” Gothian explained, “then our identity checks are useless.”

“Oh,” Kouro said. “Diabolical. Truly diabolical. What will be your countermeasures?”

Gothian hesitated, unwilling to admit that no one had devised one yet. “My Policy and Analysis team is studying the matter right now, and a decision will be imminent,” he said.

“Good. Very good. We’ve got to nip these bandits in the bud,” Kouro said ineptly. “You may rest assured that nothing of this matter will be reported in
Matin.
”

“That’s exactly why I asked you to drop by,” Gothian said. “That, and to see if I might buy you a meal.”

“Never averse to that,” Kouro said. “But I think it would be more appropriate for me to stand treat. You, after all, are in the front lines of the struggle, and should be honored as best I can.”

Gothian blinked, unwilling to believe anyone actually talked like that, then smiled acceptance.

• • •

“Hey, Yoshitaro! Don’t you ever pick up your friggin’ mail?” the I&R Company clerk asked.

Njangu braked in considerable amazement. “Nope,” he said. “Nobody ever writes me. I’m awwl aaa-lone in the world.”

“Write, flight, spite. Somebody sent you a package.”

“Oh yeh? From where?”

“Now do I have time to read the return addresses of every piece of mail?” the clerk asked. “Of course not … just the ones that smell pretty or have dirty suggestions on the disc cover. C’mon, troop. Get your goodies.”

“ ’Kay,” Njangu said. “You know anybody at II Section who’s got an X-ray machine?”

• • •

“Well dip me in chocolate and call me turd,” Kipchak said, examining the pistol closely. It was a mankiller, a variable-aperture blaster of cold gray alloy, as deadly as it looked. “Who’s your unknown admirer?”

“Damfino,” Njangu said. “There was nothing in the package, other than a piece of paper with a com number.”

Kipchak looked at the pistol even more closely.

“I think I got some advice for you,” he said.

“Already taken,” Njangu said. “After II Section X-rayed the box and didn’t find anything boomish in it, I had the armorer take the piece apart looking for fiendish thingies inside. Nothing. He said it was a perfectly standard Marley. About four hundred credits on the open market. Then we took it out to the range, bolted it up in a vise, and ran a string to the trigger. Shoots like a sumbeech,” he said. “Dead nuts on.”

Kipchak turned the weapon over and over. “You try the com number?”

“Not yet. But I’m sure thinking about it. Maybe this is a new way to get in my shorts.”

The door to Njangu’s room banged open, and Garvin bounced in. “Hey, look what somebody sent me!” He held up a pistol identical to Njangu’s.

• • •

Over the next week, about fifty Force soldiers got packages, of various shapes and configurations. All contained identical pistols, and the same com number. Some recipients were in I&R Company, including Petr Kipchak.

• • •

“ ’Kay,” Hedley said, “so that’s it with these flipping popguns? You’re the big-time Intelligence analyst.”

“To reassure you that your view of me as a potential messiah is accurate,”
Cent
Angara, said, “I do, in fact, have an explanation. They’re bait.”

“What sort of flipping bait?”

“The people who got them,” Angara said, “are either recent enlistees or people who’ve had a bit of trouble adjusting to military life. Some have been in the motivational platoon, two or three in the brig for various offenses. Quite a few of your I&R people, by the way. All good field soldiers, though.”

“What happens,” Hedley asked, “when they dial that flipping com number?”

“I don’t know,” Angara said. “There’s somebody e-monitoring, and they’re fairly good, because I haven’t been able to get a response other than a synthed voice that says ‘Go ahead, I’m listening.’ Evidently I’m not saying the right things, nor is anybody I’ve conned into punching up the number. I had Planetary Police’s Policy and Analysis techs check the line quietly, and the goddamned thing’s got about six bounces, so nobody knows where the base station really is, and if we dig any harder, it’ll most likely self-destruct. But I can tell you what happens when somebody does say whatever the monitoring wants to hear. Eight of the people who got pistols have deserted.”

“Deserted? Not just gone on a spree?” Hedley asked.

“Vanished clean. The MPs tracked two of them to the ‘rail station. A ticket clerk said he saw a good-looking soldier open a locker and take out a package. She went into the women’s ‘fresher, and came out in civvies.”

“Oh flipping really?”

“ Yeh,” Angara said. “He remembered which bank the locker was in, so we grabbed a couple of P&A types, and quite illegally opened all of the lockers. One had a rolled-up uniform in it that had been issued to Striker Mol Trengue, who is currently carried on the books as absent over leave. I looked at her holo on the roster. Real pretty. Sniper-rated, too.”

“Pretty good sign,” Hedley said, “that somebody doesn’t plan on coming back when they leave the monkey suit behind. So somebody’s collecting flipping deserters?”

“Looks like.”

“Who?”

“Dunno.”

“Why?”

“Dunno that either.”

• • •

The four old women had worked together, cleaning offices in Leggett’s business district, for years. They’d gone to each other’s weddings, birth ceremonies, manhood rituals, Task-divinings, taken care of each other’s children and grandchildren. They lived within a block of each other in the Eckmuhl, and walked the three kilometers to and from work together each day. Their chatter stopped for a moment as a police lifter cruised past — like the other ’Raum in their district, they’d obediently surrendered their cards when The Movement ordered. The lifter passed, and they talked on, of this and that.

A battered lighter, cargo space covered by a canvas tarp, lifted out of a narrow street and came after the women. One noticed the lighter, creeping slowly after them, was about to say something when the canvas fell away. Two men, one woman stood there, wearing dark clothing and hoods, and holding military Squad Support Weapons with drum magazines.

The woman started to scream, but it was too late as the blasters shattered the early-morning quiet. Bodies were smashed against the office wall next to them, blood spattering in a grotesque spray. The lighter lifted nearly straight up, against traffic regulations, banked over a rooftop, and disappeared, leaving a scattering of leaflets in its wake. They were all the same:

Eleven more ’Raum, none with any known involvement with The Movement, were slaughtered that day, and the same leaflets scattered over their bodies.

• • •

The people of Leggett, known for dark humor, dubbed the killers of the Committee “beards.” If questioned why beards, the answer was because none of the assassins appeared to have them. It was the best … and only joke as the dry season ground on, and the killings continued. Some ’Raum quit their jobs and huddled in the Eckmuhl or other ’Raum ghettos across the planet. Others had their jobs terminated, for no citizen of D-Cumbre wanted to chance being in a crossfire if someone came for “their” ’Raum. Police seemed unable to arrest any of the beards, or find any leads to the mysterious organization and its leaders.

• • •

Now D-Cumbre’s cities flashed with violence. Not only Leggett, but Aire, Seya, Taman City, Launceston, Kerrier saw robberies, assassinations, intimidation of officials.
Caud
Williams broke the always-unlucky Fourth Regiment into independent companies, each to a city, generally barracked in the main police compounds. But there were never enough soldiers — the Force, badly undermanned, now was spread thin. Williams privately thought too thin.

• • •

The five men came through the door with a rush, guns leveled. Jasith’s store manager boss squeaked and fainted. “No one moves,” the leader said.

Jasith held up her hands, and the other three clerks followed her lead. She took a slow step sideways, and two guns were aimed at her.

“Don’t even think about that alarm,” the first man warned. “The one that’s about two steps to your left.” Jasith froze. “We know where all six of the alarms are,” he continued. “Touch one, and you’ll die. All we want is the cashbox … and which of you is Jasith Mellusin?”

Jasith licked suddenly dry lips. “I … I am,” she said reluctantly.

“You’re coming with us for a while,” the man said. “You’ll be assisting The Movement. Your father’ll pay — ” Very suddenly his head exploded, and he pinwheeled, falling, his finger clenched on the trigger, and bolts shattered mannequins, dressing-room mirrors. Jasith’s bodyguard, standing in the doorway to the break room, swung his pistol toward another ’Raum, was gunned down. The bodyguard’s teammate pushed over his partner’s body, was killed before he could level his pistol.

Jasith went flat. She heard shouts, more shots. She noticed an earring she’d thought lost a week earlier on the floor about a centimeter from her nose. “Break off!” she heard someone shout. “Away from here!”

A police lifter cruising the boulevard heard the shots, and its two cops jumped out, one keying the automatic
DISTRESS
code. The four ’Raum ran out of the lingerie shop, and the cops saw them. One fired, missing, and was shot down. The other officer knelt, and fired back. The ’Raum dashed down the street, shooting wildly at anything or anyone that moved. A boy about ten, a ’Raum window cleaner, ran out of a doorway and was killed.

Another police lifter spun around the corner, and three policemen, armed with blasters, came out. The ’Raum went down an alley, onto another street. Halfway down the street was an old stone building, a bankrupt gymnasium.

• • •

“We have estimated four suspects,” the police com said tonelessly. “They’re inside the old Silver Exertorium. One officer down. Request heavy support.”

“On the way. Force also notified.”

• • •

The Grierson was armored, black with a
POLICE EMERGENCY TEAM
on the side. A gunner sat in the open hatch, behind a 25mm autocannon, sweeping back and forth, looking for a target. The Grierson’s back ramp dropped, and two platoons of Special Tactics police ran out, bulky in body armor, combat vest, military helmet and blasters. Officers shouting orders, they took position around the gymnasium.

“We getting any fire?” a police noncom asked.

“Nothin’ so far.”

“Good. We got ‘em pinned,” the other said. “Second Squad … we’ll go for the main entrance.”

The ten policemen came into the open, as a window of the gymnasium smashed and an SSW’s barrel poked out; blaster fire boomed. Cops ducked for shelter, or screamed and went down. A slim tube with a bulbous, finned object on it slid out a doorway, and the ’Raum holding it aimed carefully, touched the firing stud. The rocket slammed into the pavement just in front of the Grierson, bounced, and exploded under the driver’s compartment. The ACV bounced clear of the ground, pilot fighting for control, then rolled, crushing the gunner. Its drive still hissed, and then the Grierson bulged, flame flickering from its open ports and hatches. Another SSW opened fire, bolts crashing into the bottom of the Grierson, ricocheting wildly.

“It’s a trap,” somebody shouted. “The bastards had backup! Get the frigging army in!”

• • •

Alarms shrilled across Camp Mahan’s parade ground, and a reaction element streamed toward waiting ACVs. Dill and his crew stood helplessly beside their still-unrepaired Grierson. “Goddammit, goddammit, goddammit,” Ben swore monotonously. “Somebody’s having fun, and it ain’t us.”

First
Tweg
Malagash came around a corner. “I need one volunteer … you, Jaansma. Ammo detail on that Cooke over there. The poor little copsies are running out of bullets.”

• • •

Garvin felt orphaned, naked. He didn’t know anybody in the Cooke’s crew or the other man on the detail. He didn’t belong with them, didn’t know if they were any good. He wanted Dill, Gorecki, Kang, not these strangers if he was going close to danger. At
least
, he thought,
we’re just taking the bullets in. We won’t have to use them.
But he was very damned grateful for the pistol at his waist.

His headset crackled. “Would you look at that?” the pilot said, and Garvin saw smoke billowing high from the city’s center.
Hope Jasith’s got a good view of the excitement, and she’s not scared,
he thought.
Sure wish I could be there to do the strong right bower stuff.

“ ’Kay, gang,” the pilot went on. “That’s where the action appears to be. I’ve got contact with the LZ Officer. We’ll go in high, get a view of what’s going on, then go in fast. Get the shit off the bird so we can get out quick. I’ll try to give you guys a chance to tourist a little on the way out.”

They crossed over land, and Garvin looked down at the high, ancient walls of the Eckmuhl below, then a flash and a thin stream of smoke rushed at them. “Dive,” he shouted. “Somebody’s shooting!” The pilot gaped, turned to look at Garvin, and the missile slammed into the Cooke’s nose, exploded. The vehicle tumbled, and two soldiers were pitched out, falling, screaming, a hundred meters to the narrow streets of the Eckmuhl.

“Hang on,” the pilot shouted. “We’re goin’ in hot. It’s gonna be a bastard!”